


Scarlet Letters

by sylvain



Category: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (Bay Movies)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gender-neutral Reader, Hurt/Comfort, Other, Reader-Insert, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-25 08:53:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21933274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sylvain/pseuds/sylvain
Summary: While hurrying home to ride out an ice storm, you stumble upon a mysterious stranger injured in the alley by your apartment.  As a nurse, your medical training and compassion prevent you from leaving him unattended, even if he is a giant turtle with something like a warning emblazoned on his shell..Now with FANART (see end note Ch 3).
Relationships: Raphael (TMNT)/Reader
Comments: 90
Kudos: 343





	1. Proceed with Caution

**Author's Note:**

> In this first chapter, both the reader and Raphael are referred to with they/them pronouns. Raphael will assume he/him pronouns after the characters are properly introduced.
> 
> *100 kudos!?*  
> Thank you so much to everyone for reading and commenting and leaving love for this story. You're all so wonderful! Thank you!

You’ve walked this route home dozens of times. It isn’t your favorite. In fact, it makes you sick to your stomach to cut through poorly lit streets and tight alleys, particularly those under the control of Purple Dragons. To your right and left, the gang’s tags mark brick buildings and doorways, visible to anyone who knows what they’re looking for. At the corner, elderly folks occupy a small table in a family owned restaurant. You try to ignore the eyes that follow you as you pass the window. 

The traffic light overhead blinks yellow. _Caution._ Instinctively, you reach for your shoulder. Even under layers of clothing - a shirt, a sweater, a winter coat - you know exactly where the blade had pierced your skin all those years ago. It stings, even now, the scar you’d acquired as a child. The pain reminds you that your father’s murderer is still out here somewhere. 

You wouldn’t take this route home from the clinic unless you absolutely had to, but the next shift of nurses had gotten stuck in traffic. An hour later than you were supposed to be relieved of your post, you were finally able to make the long trek home. And with the meteorologists on the radio predicting an ice storm, you knew the commute was going to be a doozy. 

By the time you made it out of the clinic, the subways had already become overcrowded and delays were piling up. Taxis were few and far between. You were pretty sure those cabs barreling up and down the avenues weren’t even taking fares anymore. Everyone was in a hurry to get themselves off the road and into shelter. And now it looks like you were one of the few still trying to find a way home.

Just a few blocks further. You’d reach the end of Purple Dragon territory and descend the steps of your basement apartment. The gang’s influence hadn’t always reached this far, but living on the edge of the action meant renting Abma’s basement was even cheaper now than it had been when you moved in three years ago. Most people were uncomfortable living without a view of the sky, but living underground never bothered you. In fact, the descent into your apartment was one of the few things that filled you with a sense of safety and calm. Plus, with the money you save on rent, you’re able to upgrade the apartment’s amenities and decor to fit your taste as you please.

You blink at your surroundings and curse yourself for getting lost in your thoughts. You aren’t home-free yet. You have to be vigilant. Continuing on, you keep your eyes sharp and your ears attuned to your surroundings.

From the alley to your right, there comes a deep grunt and a wet gasp. You freeze. You clench your teeth and your fists as your fight or flight response wars with itself in your mind. Your heart beats wildly in your chest, and you consider your options. 

You know you can continue on your way. You can see home from where you’re standing. You can go, hide behind closed doors, and try to forget that you heard anything out here. But the sound comes again, the struggle of someone gasping for air through sickness or injury, and your compassion kicks into high gear. Your fear moves aside as your medical training takes the forefront of your mind.

With a deep breath and your hand on the can of pepper spray you keep in the pocket of your parka, you start down the alley. Every inch of your advance is one of mindful consideration. You’re poised to run at any evidence of danger. So far, there is none.

The wet coughs echoing off the walls are reminiscent of the final breaths of your father all those years ago, and the thought of another person lying in pain on the pavement tugs at your heart and urges you closer to investigate. 

Creeping along the wall of the alley, you approach the overflowing dumpster. The tiny hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. You tighten your hold on your pepper spray and take out your phone. Your feet take another step, then another. 

If it is a Dragon, you hope they are injured gravely. You think you’d gladly let them rot on the street. But if it isn’t, if it’s a victim of their cruelty and violence, then you dread what you’ll find among the towering bags of trash. 

When the moans stop abruptly, you remember to pull your phone out of your pocket. You’re ready to dial for emergency assistance, but you fear the worst. Either the wounded have succumbed to their injuries or they are preparing themselves for discovery.

Another deep breath of winter air chills you from the inside out, but you widen your stance with determination. The cold, rusted edge of the dumpster digs into your fingertips as you lean around it for a peek. There’s movement behind the bags of filth that block your view. There's the tell tale scraping of metal against stone - a weapon being dragged over concrete. 

The breathing has resumed. Ragged. Labored. Shallow. Distressed. 

With your pepper spray raised and at the ready, you grab ahold of a trash bag standing between you and the injured person and yank it out of the way. 

There’s no word of shock strong enough to describe what you feel as you take in the sight before you. But the emotion is fleeting. A wide green face turns toward you, grimacing in pain as the creature hiding in the shadows struggles to breathe. 

You've heard stories of giant crocs in the sewers. But this isn't that. As you look into those large green eyes, fierce even in the face of being helpless, your heart aches. It’s a moment later that you recognize the shine of a streetlamp’s light reflected on metal. But the pronged weapon doesn’t appear to be much of a threat. The points of the sai tremble as the arm extending it in defense struggles to maintain the position. 

With a fatigued grunt, the arm drops and the weapon clatters to the ground. The eyes that were once full of bravado and pride soften as a cough wracks their body. Those same eyes now plead silently for help, and you know in the core of your being that you were wrong to ever have considered them a creature at all; they are a person.

You lower your own weapon, returning your can of pepper spray (as well as your phone) to your jacket pocket. “I’m here to help,” you whisper. 

With your hands up to show that you mean them no harm, you take slow steps around the piles of garbage that separate you from the one slumped against the brick building. Without touching them to feel for bone breaks or having any medical equipment on hand to give a proper exam, there’s not much you can do. You’re shivering as you take stock of their injuries as best as you can with a quick look. But you have to ignore the cold of the coming storm for at least a little while longer. You can’t leave this person. Not alone. Not out here. 

“Can you walk?”

They look up at you, scowling, as if to say they’d be walking already if they could. 

You glance up and down the alley to check for danger, but the only thing you notice is the wind starting to kick up, the clouds growing ever darker, and the chill cutting through your parka and settling deep in your bones. You can’t imagine how the unclothed person at your feet must be faring; not to mention that the touch of cold concrete and brick against bare skin has never been kind.

No matter your need to take them to shelter, however, you won’t be able to move them by sheer force of will alone. 

“My apartment is there.” You point down the way to the corner. The two of you could make it, unseen, if you stuck to the shadows of the building. But they would have to bear some of their own weight. 

You look down at them, catching their gaze and fearing for their safety more than your own. “Come with me,” you say, and now you’re the one that’s pleading. Reaching down in an offer of assistance, you add, “Please.”

_I’m not gonna hurt you._ You know that’s what people say to win the trust of others in situations like this. You know it’s what you’re _supposed_ to say. But you’ve never been one to lie to your patients. 

A shaking hand reaches up to you, its fingers slowly uncurling from a fist. You notice the fingers are three, but after seeing a green giant you suppose there’s not much else that can surprise you. It’s more the tremor in the hand that has your attention. You decide it’s safer to take them by the wrist for a steadier hold to prevent further injury. 

You sneak a quick check of their pulse as you crouch down at their side. Their heart rate is worrisomely slow. You bite your lip and prepare both of you to stand. “This is gonna hurt,” you admit as gently as you can. Then, before either of you can back out, you sling their muscled arm over your shoulders and encourage them to their feet. 

They cry out in pain as they stand. Their skin is cold as ice, but the blood streaming down their side and seeping through the pants of your scrubs is warm. 

Wind whistles and the first bites of freezing rain sting against your cheeks. “Move,” you beg them. Every shuffling step is a struggle and you wonder what could be so important in their backpack that they couldn’t leave it behind for you to retrieve after they were inside. 

With the extra weight, the trip down the alley feels like a mile. But finally, you reach your building where the railing of the staircase can take the brunt of your companion’s weight. Your relief is soon replaced with curiosity, however, as you follow them down to your basement apartment. Now that you have a good view of their back, your breath catches in your throat. It wasn’t as you thought. They aren’t carrying a pack at all. You blink as you take in the patterns of their _shell_ , its scutes painted and chipped and scarred.

Your eyes narrow at the faded red kanji and relax again when your companion turns their soft gaze upon you. The characters on their shell speak of anger, but other than the weapon they'd brandished in defense, you’ve been witness to none of that. In fact, as you move around them in the small space to unlock your door, you don't think you've ever felt as safe as you do with them standing at your back.


	2. Patient X

You listen to the hitch of the stranger's breath as you turn the key. You expect your logic and reason to speak up, to ring warning bells about inviting strangers into your home, but as you usher your companion into the apartment, you find yourself more relieved by their company than concerned. 

They've accepted your help. They'll soon be in from the cold. Under your care, they’ll suffer no further harm. You stare at the characters painted on their shell as they pass and wonder why this person’s safety is so important. You wonder why it’s so important _to you_. 

As they lean awkwardly against the wall, awaiting direction, you know they’re trying desperately to hide their vulnerability. Though it goes against the desire of your compassionate heart, you stop yourself from reaching out in aid. You think a person like them, a _warrior_ , must draw some sense of comfort from feeling in control. They are most at ease when they’re the strongest one in the room. You’ll let them hold onto that belief for a little while more. But they've lost a lot of blood. It’s likely they’ve been alone, braving sub-freezing temperatures, for hours. They sway where they stand. And when their eyes meet yours - unfocused and bloodshot - your heart seizes in your chest. 

You hold their gaze longer than you intended. It’s impossible to resist the pull he has on you. You get lost in the pain and confusion broadcasted through the green irises. An indeterminate stretch of time passes, where the stranger seems to speak to you only through their eyes. 

Their eyes say: _Run._ They say: _You should have stayed away._ They say: _I’m not worthy of this kindness._ They say: _Please don’t send me back out there to die._

It's not until you break eye contact to lock the door behind you that you find the words to say. “The kitchen’s past the living room.” You’re surprised to hear a tremor in your voice as you transfer your phone into your pants pocket. But the itch of fear under your skin is not borne out of worry over your own safety. It’s worry over theirs. Seeing the turtle’s unsteady gait and the way they take silent inventory of the room, you think they are more frightened than you are.

It feels foolish to hang your blood-soaked jacket on the hook by the door, instead of tossing it directly into the small washing machine next to your bedroom, but you do it anyway out of habit. You’ll get to it later. Now, there are more important matters to which you must attend. 

In the kitchen, you find the oversized turtle seated on a stool, fighting for long, even breaths. It appears to be an attempt at meditation. You take note that their choice of stool is far from the fully-stocked butcher’s block of knives. Perhaps their their position on the opposite side of the island counter is a deliberate show that they don't mean you any harm. Or, perhaps they're too weak to think through that far.

You let your entry into the kitchen be known by softly clearing your throat. With everything you do, you try to make it apparent that you mean your guest no harm. You know it's dangerous to expose a person with hypothermia to direct heat, so a hot bath is out of the question - for now. So, you start with an offer of tea and leave the kettle steaming on the stove to lend moisture to the air. 

The turtle accepts the drink with hands that shake and eyes that radiate trust. So much trust. You wonder if you've earned it. A fighter such as them doesn't seem like one to trust easily, yet, even as you move behind their back, to retrieve the medical kit from the cabinet, they don’t show any concern at having you move in and out of their personal space. But they're quiet, so you gently fill the silence.

"May I touch you?" You ask before setting the first aid box on the counter and pulling up a stool for yourself. Your companion gives a slow nod. Now that you are positioned in front of them, their eyes never stray from your hands. 

Donning a pair of latex-free gloves, you tell them, "I'll have a better idea of what we're dealing with once I get you cleaned up. Looks like you may need stitches." Although this can't be good news for the turtle, you receive a nod of understanding in reply. "This is going to hurt," you warn, like they aren't gritting their teeth against excruciating pain already. 

The peroxide bubbles over the wounds to their soft side and then over the long laceration on their thigh. Though their resolve hadn’t faltered while you cleaned the injury to their side, their response to their thigh injury is not so unreactive. The turtle clenches one of their fists atop the counter and their green eyes disappear behind tightly closed lids. Your patient releases a low hiss through their teeth. 

To ease the peroxide's sting, you blow on the cut along the adductor muscles. Under different circumstances, bringing your mouth so close to the inside of a person's thigh could be considered fun, foreplay even. But as your hands frame the wound, catching excess antiseptic and wiping away blood, the intimacy is anything but sexy. 

The lesion isn't deep, but every move and flex of the muscle opens the wound. A good bandage will suffice. Same with the injuries to the side of your patient's body. The only area that looks in need of stitches so far is a split lip.

You dab analgesic on the cuts to their face and mirror the turtle’s frown. It takes a moment for you to realize that your companion’s attention has shifted from your hands to the needles and string you've laid on the counter. 

"I can be quick," you say to ease their concern. Stitches aren't part of your job description, but thanks to a rise in gang-related crime, the clinic has been overbooked and overrun with emergency walk-ins often enough that stitching up small wounds is old hat.

You hold the stranger's face in your hands. As if of their own mind, your fingers stroke their cheeks along the underside of the threadbare mask you have yet to ask about and they have yet to remove. Their eyes flit from the floor to meet your gaze and drop again. Tracing the bottom edge of the red bandana with a caress, you decide now isn’t the time to discuss it.

"You're going to be OK," you start to say, but even as the words escape your lips, you worry. Their skin is clammy and pale. Cold-blooded animals need external sources of warmth. You let the press of your palms linger on their emerald skin, lending their warmth for a minute, for two. You could be imagining things, but you think that your companion sighs in relief, that they lean into your touch.

There's no time to waste on wonder. Your patient isn't only weak from blood loss and the fatigue of a fight, it's possible their hypothermia is advancing. 

Your fingers stitch faster than you thought you could manage; but, then again, your patients have never sat this still before. They've never demonstrated such patience and fortitude while under duress. 

When you're done, you cradle their face in your hands once more as if to admire your handiwork. Their cheeks are even colder than before. You force your voice to be steady as you say, "Let's get you into a warm bath." It's more an order than a suggestion.

Using the countertop as support, the man-sized turtle pushes themself to stand. Still, they haven't said a word.

You’re under their arm in an instant to offer what support you can, but a knock on the door jars your attention. The turtle squares off their shoulders at the interruption. Despite injury and fatigue, they’re taking on a fighting stance and staggering toward the wall. Years of self-defense training inform you of the obvious; this stranger fully intends to defend your home from whomever has come.

Their caution has alarms sounding off in your head. Seeing them ready to attack reminds you that their wounds aren’t the result of an accident. There had been a fight on Purple Dragon turf, and it is as likely for the person at your door to be a member of the gang looking for retribution as it is to be a friend.

A large green hand reaches for you, but a lack of coordination is another symptom of hypothermia. It takes a second try for the hand to land on your forearm. The grip is delicate, trembling. 

"I'll get rid of them," you say reassuringly, before gently removing yourself from their hold. You signal for your companion to wait as you check the peephole. You won’t let them expose themselves, especially not in their current state.

Seeing your landlord’s daughter on the other side of the door fills you with the anxiety brought on by the risk of being found harboring an unexpected, highly unusual, guest; but the relief of seeing her instead of a Dragon is enough to ease the tension in your shoulders. You whisper to the hulking figure in the shadow of the hall, “It’s OK.”

Leaning heavily against a closet door, your companion gives a nod. Their breaths come in harsh gasps, though they are trying to hide their struggle. You’ll do a more thorough exam and listen to their lungs after they’ve warmed up.

You’ll make things with Lori quick.

Pulling open the door just enough to make conversation, you're hit by a blast of cold air and sleet. "Hey, Lor. Everything good?" you greet the young woman at your doorstep.

“Ma sent me down to bring you this,” Lori says, nudging the space heater at her feet. “She knows it gets colder here than the other units. Though I dunno how useful it would be if any more ice builds up on the power lines.”

To bring an end to the visit, you accept the heater without argument. “Thanks. Tell her, thanks.”

“If you wanna ride out the storm with us upstairs, you’re more than welcome-” Lori’s invitation is cut short when her gaze lands upon the fresh bloodstain on the thigh of your scrubs. 

“Crazy night at the Urgent Care,” you explain, forcing a stiff chuckle. “You should get home. I’m good here.” You drag in the space heater and wrap your arms around yourself to emphasize the fact that every second at the door is a second Lori is forcing you to face the cold without a jacket. (And it’s not like you can put on the bloodstained coat without drawing additional concern and/or suspicion.)

“Yeah, well,” Lori raises her hand in farewell, “stay safe.”

You spare a glance over your shoulder but find the corridor empty of your red-banded companion. To Lori, you offer a tight smile and a hurried, “You too,” before closing the door. 

"Where did you go?" You ask the empty hallway as you drag the wheeled space heater behind you. 

Hunched over the back of the couch, your companion shivers where they stand. You abandon the space heater in an instant.

When you take the turtle by the arm, they don’t flinch. In fact, you experience a touch of deja vous. They're leaning into you - you're almost positive - but you can’t waste time reading into it. They're only seeking your warmth, you tell yourself. Their temperature needs regulation ASAP. And turtles, you think, have an affinity for water.

"You. Bath. Now."

By the time your patient is standing beside the tub, they look so pale and shaky and weak you are sure they're about to faint. Quickly, you adjust the water at the faucet and help them in.

Although their mouth is drawn in an unreadable line, a sound like a purr rolls from the turtle's throat as they sink into the deep bathtub. You're glad you decided to spring for the deluxe remodel and double-wide tub. Anything smaller, you think, would be too tight a fit for the turtle's giant shell. 

You don't dare turn on the harsh overhead lights, opting instead for the softer lamp of the vanity across from the bath. It's the least you can do when stripping your companion of their privacy, but they haven't voiced a wish for you to leave the room. They haven't made any indication that they're made uncomfortable by your company. 

Water sloshes in gentle waves as you soak a washcloth. Using it, you try to warm your patient's forehead and cheeks with slow presses of the wet cloth. You try to ease their unspoken concerns with hushed words of hope and encouragement for their recovery. 

Once it seems like they're regaining some color in their cheeks, the turtle sits forward. There's enough room for you to wash their back, but only just. 

You dip the washcloth into the bath. It’s properly soaked when you raise it again, but you pause. Your stomach flips. It seems silly that after helping the turtle clean the rest of their body you’d be hesitant to bring the cloth to their shell, but this feels different. Though a part of you wonders if the carapace is sensitive to touch at all, your heart races at the thought of feeling its bumps and edges under your palm.

Holding your breath, you squeeze warm water over the hard scales and watch it run in rivulets through the patterns of the shell - some natural and others caused by old scars and new wounds. It’s mesmerizing. The water passes over the kanji and the paint dissolves into the water, red, but thin compared to the blood that continues to seep through the turtle’s bandages. You bring your hand down against the shell to rub at the writing and your patient tenses before you both release a long breath. 

“Can you feel this?” you ask in a whisper.

“Yeah,” they say and you’re shocked by the deep tone of their voice and the heavy accent on their tongue. 

“Does it hurt?" You lay your tingling palm on their shell to marvel at its texture.

"No," they say shortly. “...it’s…” Your companion exhales another shaky breath. “It don’t hurt.”

You take up washing their back again and listen to the turtle's slow and shallow breathing.

"Ya always take in strangers?" they ask gruffly.

In response to the accusation, you introduce yourself with the hope they'll answer in kind. 

"Raphael," they say with a huff, turning to catch your eye. Their gaze is soft despite the hard edges the turtle insists on maintaining. 

You offer a warm smile as you swipe the washcloth over your patient's wide shoulders and neck. Their pulse is getting weaker, and slower. Their eyes are starting to spend more time closed than open. You’re surprised that they have been able to stay awake this long. 

With a halting reach, you bring your hands to their mask. The weight of their hand on yours stops you from untying the knot behind their head. But the need for pause is brief. You receive a nod of consent before Raphael slowly brings their hand down to the water again.

The knot is tight, but your nimble fingers have no trouble untangling the long tails of the mask. Setting the bandana to soak in the sink with the other bands and wraps you’ve removed from the warrior’s arms, hands, and feet, you take a peek at the mirror. You have a view of the turtle’s full face for the first time. Your heart clenches as what was for so long a hardened expression droops into a sleepy frown.

You wonder if the change in Raphael’s expression has anything to do with being unmasked, or if it’s all a result of the need to recover from the night’s events. Returning to the side of the tub, you offer another smile. You bring the washcloth to Raphael’s cheek again to wipe at the clear line where the bandana had protected the top half of the turtle’s head from the elements. Raphael’s breath hitches at the attention you give.

Your voice breaks despite your resolve. "Not so much a stranger anymore, now, are ya Red?"

A hint of amusement flashes through their bleary eyes as their upper lip curls in what could have been the beginnings of a smile, had the movement not pulled the fresh stitches and turned the expression into a grimace of pain. 

⁂

Raphael’s not a person of many words, but you learn that he was separated from his brothers during a rooftop fight before he fell. By your professional assessment, and from what he’s told you, it was the stun of the fall that kept him immobile long enough for the cold to wrack his system.

You’re almost through rinsing the last of the soap and grime from his shell when the slur of his words takes a turn for the worse. Raphael’s eyes blink heavily, though they try to hold your gaze. He slumps against the back of the tub. “...don’ think... I’m gun’…” 

Following his retreat, you rise up on your knees and grab his shoulder in the hope you can keep him awake long enough to get him to a bed or the couch - somewhere he can have a proper rest. Nonetheless, his head lolls forward, and no matter how insistent you are as you squeeze his arm or pat his cheek, you can’t keep him from slipping into unconsciousness.


	3. Basic Instinct

Your back aches and fatigue threatens your resolve as you keep vigil over the turtle. Since draining the tub, you’ve had time to wash and dry his shorts and wrappings, change into warm clothes yourself, set up the space heater near the bathroom sink, and cocoon your sleeping companion in nearly every towel and blanket you could spare from the linen closet. Still, it’s been four hours and the closest he’s come to regaining consciousness is some incoherent mumbling that might have been an apology.

Kneeling in the nest you made using the blankets and pillows leftover after tucking in Raphael, you stroke his head with an attempt to soothe. “You have nothing to be sorry for, Red. It’s OK. You’re gonna be OK.” You’re relieved to feel he has warmed up but concerned by his newly ashen complexion and the ever-present congestion in his cough. 

When he quiets again, you sit back with a sigh. For now, quiet is good. The less he talks, the less the coughs. And it would do both of you well to get some rest. 

Though your body begs you to sleep, you know your work isn’t done. You take a clean hand-towel off Raphael's shoulders to run it under the hot water from the sink, and you crank down the power of the space heater. The latter has done its job to steal the chill from the porcelain and tile of the room. Now, you hope, it can maintain the comfortable temperature without drying out the air too much. Taking the former to the tub, you offer moisture to Raphael’s reptilian skin. 

Despite it being a literal pain in your ass to spend so much time sitting on the tile floor, you can’t bear to leave the guy’s side. He didn’t leave yours. Not when he was delirious with pain and hypothermia. He still followed you to the door to make sure you were safe. True, all he would have had to defend you from was Lori Abma - the 5-foot-nothin’, 90lbs soaking wet, sweetheart from upstairs, but he was ready to take on the world for you - a total stranger - even at his weakest.

He could have hidden. He _should_ have hidden. But he hadn’t.

Remembering the moment from earlier tonight brings on a fresh wave of affection for the turtle. You take his hand as it dangles over the side of the tub. Though your intention was to return it to his chest under the blankets, you find you can't give it up so quickly. You marvel at how comfortable the weight of his hand feels in yours. You slide your fingertips over his palm and stare at the way the curves of your hands compliment each other, especially with his hand so much larger than yours. 

After a series of small twitches, Raphael’s fingers slowly come to close around your hand. Though you tell yourself it’s a reflex, though you remind yourself you only know a little more about him than any other patient you’ve had at the walk-in clinic, you can’t ignore the way your hands have locked together - a perfect fit. 

Even as large as he is, Raphael looks small and peaceful in his sleep. There’s a sense of delicateness in the flutter of his eyelids, in the beat of his pulse you as it thrums under your palm. But then his body is wracked by a harsh cough and your humors shift from affection to concern. 

He lies under the mound of blankets, defenseless, having no choice but to trust you. And he did, he does, without so much as posturing a threat. You hold his hand tighter, hugging it to your chest.

The vulnerability of his current situation has you wishing you could scoop him into your arms, despite his size. You think, if positions were different, he might allow you to hold his head in your lap, at least, and provide the type of comfort you only wish someone would have offered you that night the police drove you home from the crime scene of your father’s murder, where your other parent was in too much shock to offer consolation to their child. 

It’s presumptuous and out of line and too familiar, you know, but you don’t stop yourself from giving into the desire to press your forehead against Raphael’s as he sleeps. You stroke the side of his face as you rest against him and whisper into his ear. “You gotta be OK, Red, cause I don’t know what else to do." 

You’re not prepared to care for anyone in need of advanced treatment, let alone a turtle. Internet searches have only helped so much. What you really need is for the big guy to wake up and tell you what you can do to help him recover. To tell you what’s working and what isn’t. 

With a final stroke to his cheek, you decide it's time to make good on the promise you made to yourself back when you thought your companion was lugging around a pack, not a shell. You're going to go down the alley. It's a trip into the storm that you’ve been trying to convince yourself not to take, but it's long overdue. 

If he dropped something behind the dumpster, something that can help you find his brothers or something that will offer a clue as to where he’s lived all these years, then you're determined to find it.

Leaving a note on the nest of blankets beside the tub, and bundled from head to toe in winter wear, you head into the night. The bitter wind whips around you and cuts through your layers of clothing. But you’re lucky. The ice storm is good for one thing - keeping the streets empty. There is no sign of life anywhere, no apparent danger except the cold and sleet.

The dumpster blocks the worst of the wind for a while, you can see why Raphael had taken shelter here. But everything is covered with snow and ice. You feel around with your boot until you hit something hard. Reaching under a heap of garbage and snow, you pick up one of the weapons Raphael had brandished earlier in the evening. 

You hold the sai’s leather-bound handle tightly in your gloved hand and rummage some more. Something like a walkie-talkie lies crushed not far from where you found the sai. You scoop up the pieces, mindful not to break any of the exposed wires, and scan the ground for any other signs of the turtle. On your hands and knees, you search. You come up with nothing. 

After a loud snap and the crash of ice shattering against a building, the way the neighborhood falls into pitch blackness shouldn’t come as a shock to you, but you jump anyway. Lori’s prediction was right; too much ice has settled on the power lines and now you’d all be without electricity for who-knows-how-long. 

Back in the apartment, you use your phone for light to strip off your icy wet outerwear and find your way to the supply closet. Thanks to your preference for keeping to yourself, years of impersonal birthday and Christmas gifts from coworkers have your top shelf stocked with enough scented candles to get you through the winter, if need be. You take down two large jars and light them with a torch from the kitchen drawer. 

Upon the gas range, you set up your two largest pots with water to boil. They should help to warm the kitchen and living room. You hug yourself as you look around the open space. _It’s better than nothing_ , you think, before heading to the bathroom to check on Raphael. 

From the doorway, you watch him as he sleeps. You worry about how impossible it will be to move him to the pull out sofa in the living room. You worry about how cold the bathroom will become without the electric space heater or furnace doing their job. When he starts to stir, you waste no time. 

Scrambling toward him, you grab your lanyard from where it hangs on the door handle. Behind your ID badge you and your coworkers usually carry ammonia capsules in case a patient starts to faint. The first time he fainted, you had been at a loss; you’d already used your smelling salts at the clinic. But since then you've replaced the capsule with one from a pack in the drawer beside the sink. Blindly removing the fresh dose from behind your badge, you ask Raphael how he’s feeling.

He’s barely conscious, but his squinting eyes scan the room like he’s searching for exits and enemies. He presses his temples and rubs them in circles as if trying to alleviate a migraine.

“I-I’m the only one here,” you assure him in quiet tones, trying not to add to his discomfort. “I found you in the alley and brought you to my apartment. Do you remember?” The question sends a new spark of anxiety coursing through your veins. 

_Does_ he remember? Does he remember your hand in his? Your faces pressed together? Your desperate whispers in his ear?

Raphael narrows his eyes at you before giving a groan and a small nod. His eyes slowly drift closed again.

“Can you stay awake?” You ask, ready to snap the capsule of smelling salts under his nose should it come to that. “Just long enough to get you into the other room,” you explain. “We lost power. It’ll get cold in here fast.”

“How far?” he asks. The question comes out short, stuck behind a figurative frog in his dry throat. In the flickering light of the candle, you can see Raphael’s focus is on you. He must be ignoring his own pains to sit up straighter, to maintain eye contact despite the headache that pounds against his skull. 

His gaze is sharp. You think, _he remembers,_ as you feel yourself shrinking away from the bath.

But the sound of his voice, clipped as it is, feels like a good sign. And, in a way, you even find it soothing. You didn’t realize how much you were missing Raphael’s deep tones and accented words. His shoulder is warm and firm beneath your hand. “N-not far at all,” you say, using the last of your confidence to give his arm an encouraging squeeze. 

Your smile falters, and all the good feelings that had been building in your chest at seeing him awake, drop when he flinches out from under your touch. 

“Let’s go, then,” he snaps. His eyes are no longer on you. His face is no longer relaxed in an expression of peaceful sleep. There’s a grimace twisting his features and the turtle that at one time had you confused as to why their shell was tagged with kanji ‘anger’ starts to live up to his brand.

Even with his injuries and bitten back cries of pain as he pushes himself to stand, you can’t seem to remove the blankets and towels fast enough. Raphael tosses them to the tile floor haphazardly before catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror. 

He snatches up his shorts from the vanity counter and exhales ragged breaths through his nose as he pulls them on. Then, leaning over the sink, he takes in the sight of his stitched lip and the bloodied gauze taped to his side. He hitches up his pant leg to get a proper look at his thigh and winces at the pressure of his fingers as they gingerly test the wound. Without further word, he lumbers out of the room with a limp.

Throwing down the armful of blankets you had intended to bring to the pullout sofa, you rush into the hall to follow him. “Are you-”

“I gotta get outta here," he announces between coughs. "Gotta get my stuff… get home.”

"You're hurt. Your banadages need changing. You need to rest." His limp shortens his gait, making it easy for you to catch up to him.

Using the armrest of the sofa as a crutch, he turns around. "Who are you to tell me what I need, huh?" 

Your heart freezes under the coldness of his stare, and the frown you've been holding back tugs at the corners of your mouth.

You are starting to understand not only why the kanji on his shell spoke of 'anger', but why it was painted in such a fierce shade of red. As Raphael finds his bearings, his sharp edges are returning. The glimpses of warrior you'd caught in the alley and in the hallway of your apartment are starting to settle into place. Though his bandana is hanging on the shower rod (too worn to be run through the dryer), his hardened expression is a mask all its own.

"I'm trying to help," you remind him with a gesture toward the medical kit still on the kitchen island. "Let me help."

Raphael takes a quick, staggering step forward and you flinch with concern that he may fall. Moving has brought fresh blood to the gauze pad you'd taped to his side after the bath. You imagine his leg isn't faring much better. They'd really do better wrapped.

"I don't need ya help," he says through gritted teeth. 

Watching him, your frown deepens. There’s something more than anger in his tone. You struggle to name the emotion, but when you shy away as he shuffles past you, he casts his eyes to the ground and you think you catch a glimpse of hurt, even sadness in the lines of his face.

Nonetheless, if he's determined to tend to his injuries on his own, you won't stand in his way. You do what you can without drawing too much attention to yourself. You try not to react when his appreciation for the supply of fresh bandages comes in short grunts. When his request for water comes out more like an annoyed patron barking his order to a diner server, you stop yourself from barking back. But as the minutes pass into an hour of him struggling to wrap his side, his stubbornness grates on your nerves.

You feel bad missing the Raphael that had been too weak to argue, but even now that he's showing his true colors, you can't help but find this other side of him attractive in its own right. The way he mutters to himself when the bandages tangle and he has to start over... The way his cheeks flush with frustration and embarrassment when he catches you stealing a glance... You can't keep your spark of affection for him at bay, even as you roll your eyes behind his shell.

It isn't until you catch him stealing glances at you out of the corner of your eye that you suspect he might actually be ready to give in to your offer of assistance. 

Struggling to bite back your amusement, you move around the island to stand in front of him. Your palm hovers between you two, waiting. "You gonna let me help you now or-"

He doesn't wait for you to finish the sentence before placing the roll of medical tape into your hand. Patching up his side involves you touching his carapace and plastron more than you remember needing to do initially, and it brings your faces close more than a few times, but you try to ignore the way your body responds to the ghost of Raphael’s breath on your cheek. You mostly ignore the way he shudders when your hands graze the textured scales of his shell. 

When you kneel between his knees to tend to his leg, you notice Raphael’s sharp intake of breath as he clamps a hand around your wrist. 

You pull your hands off of his thighs with a jerk. “I’m sorry,” you apologize immediately for the touch. “Did you wanna…” Although bending might cause him some discomfort, you realize this bandage is probably easy for him to change on his own. The way he refuses to look at you, you think you’ve crossed a boundary; you hope your sincere apology is enough to earn back his trust.

“No, it’s fine," he grumbles, but he won't look down. "You do it.”

The candle sitting on the counter doesn't offer much light, but you hear the hitch of his breath. You feel the twitch of his muscles as you roll back the leg of his shorts and expose the sensitive skin of his inner thigh again. His hand remains on your wrist awhile, but its grip gradually loosens before it falls away.

Raphael shudders again under your touch and realization hits you. “Are you ticklish?” you ask presumptuously, doing your best to keep your eager fingers from teasing. 

Raphael only shakes his head. “Can ya just-” he heaves a sigh before grunting “-finish up.”

“Of course.” You bite the inside of your cheek, embarrassed by your attempt toward flirtation and assume a professional demeanor. _You’re reading too much into things_ , you tell yourself. The feel of your hands entwined, the way he trembles when you’re close, the way his breath catches in his throat at your touch… none of it means anything.

A sound of appreciation or something like it comes from deep in Raphael's chest as he shifts on the stool again. You spare a glance up at him. His hands have come to rest in his lap, carefully out of the way of your work, but holding his abdomen. His cheeks are just a shade darker than you’d have sworn they were a minute ago. It’s hard to tell in the candlelight. 

When he finally glances down at you, you try to tell yourself that the warmth in his gaze is a trick of the light. You try to convince yourself that the way the flame dances in his eyes doesn't make him more handsome, it doesn’t make for a romantic sight. But you’re lying. 

Each moment in Raphael’s presence you find yourself more attracted to him. Even when his vulnerability makes him standoffish, you want to be near him. You've been wanting to give him a piece of your mind, too, when his attitude strikes out. You think you would, were you not afraid he'll rush into the storm ‘to make a point’: he's strong enough and brave enough to go off on his own. 

As you continue to look up at him, Raphael’s green eyes don't leave yours. Your hands pause their work so you can continue to hold his gaze.

Though you know now that he's one quick to anger, you can see he's in more than just physical pain. He's been quick to defend but trusting of a stranger. He's been strong and gentle. He’s been stubborn but accepting of help when he needs it. He rushes into action, but he listens _to you._ His paradoxes make him more interesting, make you want to learn more, make you wonder if he's interested in knowing you the way you want to know him. 

Your hands rest comfortably on Raphael's knees as you wait for some clue as to what will happen next, but even as you catch a glimpse of him swallowing hard, you're getting lost in his eyes.

You wish he wouldn't swallow his words. You wish that he would speak. That he would tell you what he wants, what he needs. That he would tell you more about his life. But when he looks at you like this - softly, curiously - it’s like his eyes are trying to tell you something he can't put into words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Raphael w/ Fem Reader @whygz](https://whygz.tumblr.com/post/190128080893/scarlet-letters-tmnt-raphael-x-reader)


	4. Tough Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Getting Raphael to open up takes a little push, but you don’t need to tiptoe; this turtle’s not one to run from a little confrontation. Raphael reveals some insecurities. And you learn there’s power in a name.

All is quiet as you kneel between Raphael’s thighs. The flickering candles give off just enough light for you to catch his features as they shift from curiosity to something like the looks of interest you’ve brushed off from people who don’t interest you in the same way. 

To be fair, no one has interested you the way Raphael does. No one has consumed your thoughts so quickly, found their way into your heart so easily. He overwhelms you by degrees.

As you consider the horrible dates of your past and the uniquely interesting night this has turned out to be, you absentmindedly caress the taut skin on the insides of his knees. 

Raphael’s stomach growls, and you can’t help but laugh at the interruption. You wonder how long you would have continued, lost in each other’s stare, if his hunger hadn’t made itself known.

“I’ll make us something,” you say as you bring yourself to your feet. You allow your hand to pass over Raphael’s shoulder until your fingertips graze the edge of his shell. Your stomach swoops at his shudder. It’s not your imagination when Raphael leans back on the stool to prolong your touch. 

At the pantry, jars of tomato sauce, cans of soup, and boxes of sundry non perishables stare back at you from the well-stocked shelves. “So, Red," you call over your shoulder, "do you have any dietary restrictions I should know about?” 

It feels weird even admitting to yourself that you researched turtle diets before your power went out and wifi switched to data. You don’t dare share that bit of information aloud.

The grunt Raphael gives in response is gruff. “Whateva’s fine,” he says, voice clipped. It's such a stark difference from the softness and warmth you'd seen radiating from his eyes, that you pull up short. You turn to face him. But he isn't looking at you. 

He wears a pinched expression as he picks at the bandage on his thigh.

Your eyebrows knit together and you feel the frown on your lips, but you decide it's best to let him be for now. He's been through so much in such a short time. 

⁂

They say it’s an old wives’ tale; they say you can’t really sense someone looking at you while your back is turned. But as you move around the kitchen, you can tell. His eyes follow you. 

It’s not the soft gaze you were falling into just moments ago. This look is piercing. There’s heat to it that you don’t understand. You think maybe you’ve done something wrong, but Raphael is short with words and it’s hard to come up with a reason on your own. 

“Everything OK?” you ask from the stove, trying not to let your uncertainty shine through your voice. The lack of response raises your concern to new heights. "Red?" When you turn to face the room, the turtle is nowhere to be seen. His absence leaves a hollow feeling in your stomach. 

Feeling even more unsettled than before, you add a thawing bag of kale to the saucepan. Hopefully, with this addition, the chicken vegetable soup won’t taste too much like the can from which it was dumped. 

You’ll impress him with your culinary prowess some other time, you think. If you get the chance. At the thought of exchanging goodbyes, your heart stops beating. When you consider never seeing him again, your heart feels like it’s forgotten how to start back up.

There’s no sound of Raphael’s reentry, but you feel his presence filling the room when he returns. The smell of the soup must have drawn him from exploring the other rooms. You don’t mind him wandering. After waking up in a strange place, you figure you’d feel more comfortable if you saw a proper layout of your surroundings as well. All that matters is his return.

Raphael peers into the pot and sniffs the air. There’s no hum of approval. No request for a taste or suggestion to adjust the seasoning. You wonder if he’ll eat what you’ve prepared, if it’ll be enough to satisfy his appetite. When you ask for his opinion on rice versus noodles, all he gives you are short huffs and a crooked side-eye.

After ten minutes of worrying what it means when he looks at you like  _ this  _ or what he’s trying to convey when he grunts like  _ that _ , you give up trying to doctor the soup. If all he's going to do is drift in and out of the shadows glaring at you, maybe he should prepare his own damn meal. 

You’re about to call him back over to take your place at the stove when you hear him gasp from across the room. Apparently ‘making himself comfortable’ on the couch isn’t going so well. Another shock of pain catches him off-guard and he lets out a short hiss. It twists your heart. 

Never one to let someone suffer alone, you ladle some soup into bowls and bring them over to the table. “You’ll be more comfortable here,” you say, not unkindly. Not that he deserves more of your kindness with the way he lifts his nose to the air and sneers. “I won’t let you stain my carpet or my couch,” you clarify, “so if you’re gonna eat, eat at the table. It’s soup. It’s hot. It’s good for you.” You think that last statement is the truth. You really tried to fix him something appropriate.

Raphael does eventually come over to eat. He’s cordial, but there’s a distance between you - more than the space of the table that separates your seats. He forgoes the spoon, in favor of lifting the bowl to drink straight from its side. Despite his reluctance to join you for the meal, he drains the bowl without complaint. 

“Do you want more?”

His answer is a shrug and you’re not sure what the hell you’re supposed to make of that. “It’s a simple question, Red,” you sharpen your gaze, trying to get a read on him. “Yes or no?” You don’t mean to snap, but you’re exasperated and tired.  _ Damn _ , you think, dragging your hands over your face; you’re so very tired. 

You watch the lines of his face dance. Surprise looks foreign on his features. “Are you talkin’ t’ me?” 

The way he's acting, you'd think no one's ever called him out on his attitude before. “Who the hell else would I be talking to? I’ve been trying to talk to you all night. Not that you owe me anything-” you hold up your hands to signify a truce “-cause you don’t, but I brought you in, patched you up, and now you act like… like none of that means anything.” You’d thought it meant  _ something.  _ It was really starting to feel like it meant  _ something. _

At Raphael’s lack of response, you grab his bowl from the table and fill it at the stove. At least while he was eating, his silence was warranted. 

You’re getting twisted up in your own emotions. You need to get a grip. Before taking the second helping over to Raphael, you place it down hard on the countertop. With a tight hold on the edge of the counter, you take a steadying breath. You’re not being fair. Raphael didn’t ask for any of this. It’s your own fault, reading so much into the brief moments of tenderness between you and this guy.... this guy who, for all intents and purposes, is still very much a stranger.

As you lift the soup bowl again, you mutter half-to-yourself, half-to-Raphael, “Geez, Red. You never heard, ‘don’t bite the hand that feeds you’?”

It’s the wrong thing to say, the wrong button to push. You know it the minute Raphael’s cheeks flush a deep emerald. 

“I ain’t some stray you brought in from the street. You think I’m gonna curl up at ya feet just cause you pet my head and tell me I’m a good boy? I ain’t no pet.”

“Good!” You shoot back. And it does feel good to release some of the tension between you like this. Finally you’re saying what you want to say the moment you want to say it without fear he’ll leave. Because he could have tried to leave at any moment. He could be gone. But he’s staying. Raphael’s not one to back down from a fight. As soon as you realize that, it feels like a weight has been lifted off your shoulders.

“Good,” you reiterate, “cause I hate pets.” You take another deep breath and, with the worry that Raphael would disappear into the storm fading, this breath centers you in a way the last one didn’t. When you speak again you’re level-headed and calm. “But I could use a friend, ya know? And it looked like you coulda used one too.” 

"Friend," he scoffs as if the word is a farce.

It is. For you. You look at him and see someone who already means more to you than any  _ friend  _ ever has. 

You two are locked in a stare until you shake your head to break free of the spell. “Look, as soon as the storm passes, I’ll help you get home. It can’t be too far, right?”

Raphael holds his side as he stands from the table. It’s as if it takes a little pressure to ease the pain of moving. 

“Whaddaya mean, ‘can't be too far'? Whadda you know, huh? Who d'you work for?"

"No one,” you answer quickly. Then amend, “Well, the Urgent Care over in DUMBO, but… No one important, I swear." 

"Then how d’ya know whereabouts I live, huh?” The way he sidesteps the stool, you think he’s going to head off to the living room or disappear down the hall. Instead, he plants his feet, folds his arms over his chest, and looks down at you in accusation.

You look up at him, a little perturbed by his distrust but… there’s something about him, even as he towers over you, that isn’t as menacing as it ought to be. He doesn’t scare you. 

He doesn’t scare you, and you suspect that’s because, deep down, he isn’t trying to. Or maybe with other people he never really has to try. Afterall, he’s huge, tattooed, and scarred. He’s a giant turtle -- a mutant, if you take the story about the ooze literally.  _ Were you supposed to? _ He was half-delirious in that bath. You blink a few times to clear your thoughts. Now, really, isn’t the time to lose focus.

Leaning back to meet his eyes, to make sure he knows you haven’t been spooked, you speak plainly. “Your accent; you’re from Brooklyn.” 

You’ve lived in the city your whole life. Mostly in the Bronx, but that was more because your surviving parent was looking to put some distance between you and that block in lower Manhattan where your father was attacked. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to guess Raphael sounds most at home right here by the piers. 

“I’m from nowhere." Raphael states like it's a fact. "‘Cause ain’t nobody thinks I’m nothin’.” His feet shuffle beneath him; he’s anxious to move. Your hands itch to reach out in a request for him to stay put. “As far as the world is concerned,” he continues, “I’m no one; I don’t exist.”

The muscles of Raphael’s jaw tick as he clenches his teeth. He raises his eyes to the ceiling and you know this is a now-or-never moment, a time to speak up. 

“You’re wrong,” you begin, anxiety filling your chest and pushing your heart into your throat. “You’re somebody to me.” 

"Ya don't even know my name."

"What? Of course I know your…" 

Raphael turns away.

You can feel the tightness of your forehead as your brow furrows. You can hear the heat in your voice. What was meant to be a gentle sentiment is carried fiercely by your determination for Raphael to listen to what you have to say. “Even when you were barely able to stand on your own two feet, you were ready to defend me.”

The glance he spares is wary. You take it as a sign to carry on. 

“You could have run, hidden, but you stayed by my side. You came with me to the door ready to fight.”

Raphael swallows hard, but his defensiveness remains solidly in place. “O’ course I did. Ya didn’t know who coulda been out there.”

“That’s what I mean.” You face him straight on. Your eyes lock on his with an intensity you think is only meant for the movies. “You could have been killed, but you were fearless.”

Raphael flinches. He tightens his arms around himself.

“What did I say?” You look at him, eyes wide with compassion. Something in him has changed. He’s pulling away again. “Don’t do that, please.” Your hand hovers in the air between you. “Don’t shut me out. Raphael,” you plead, “tell me what I said.”

When his attention snaps to you, you’re hit with the realization that you’ve never spoken his name aloud before. The syllables feel  _ right _ as the name builds in your chest and passes through your lips again. But at the same time, it feels like too much, like now that you’ve said it, you’ve revealed feelings you can’t take back.


	5. Something's Gotta Give

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bed sharing.

“I’m not…” Raphael shakes his head as his chin drops to his chest. “That’s not me,” he says quietly. And then he’s moving.

He makes it across the room before you abandon the dishes on the table to follow. “Not what?” you ask as the turtle perches himself on the edge of the couch. “You’re not making any sense.”

His broad shoulders slump as he sits with his elbows on his knees. The position must be uncomfortable, but the grimace twisting his features doesn’t seem to be in response to physical pain. 

“Maybe I don’ think things through,” he mutters. “An’ I get carried away.” Raphael’s hands pass over each other in a smooth, yet nervous, pattern. “But fearless? Nah, that’s my brutha.” A quiet chuckle breaks Raphael’s explanation; it holds more sorrow than mirth. “Fearless. I-I called him that sometimes, y’know? Started as a joke when he first took up the role as our leader. But… he earned it. He earned it every day we-”

“Did something happen to him?” Hearing Raphael speak in the past tense, you know that can't mean anything good.

Raphael heaves a sigh and forces another chuckle at his choice of words. “We didn’t exactly part _amicably_.”

You can see Raphael is trying to keep things light, but you want him to know that he doesn’t have to. Not with you. 

Your hand alights to his as you take a seat beside him, and you give it a gentle squeeze. He turns his palm under yours, open to receive your touch. Your fingers curl around his and he doesn’t let go. You wonder, not for the first time, if he remembers holding your hand as he slept. You wonder if he notices how perfectly your hand fits in his.

“We fought,” he goes on. “We were always fightin’. He followed me topside. Then, to the rooftops where we got mixed up with some unsavories. He probably thinks I ditched ‘im. Probably why he told the guys not to come lookin’ fo’ me.”

“Raphael.” There’s no doubt of your affection when you speak his name. With his hand in yours, it doesn’t feel like this thing between you is one-sided. “I don’t believe for a second that your brothers don’t wanna look for you.”

“They ain’t the ones that dragged me outta that alley. They ain’t found me here.” He has no idea just how bad the weather conditions have gotten.

“There’s a foot of snow on the ground and a thick layer of ice on top of that,” you explain with a sympathetic frown. “No one is out looking for anybody. Fearless or Hot-head, I doubt any of you turtle guys handle the cold well.” 

“Heh, sure.”

Despite what you'd imagined, knocking your shoulder against him doesn’t feel like colliding with a wall. There’s give to the rippling muscles of Raphael’s arm. There’s a playful quality to the way he sways, going along with your action. 

“Red,” you remind him, “you were slipping in and out of consciousness all night. As soon as the temperature rises above freezing, we’ll get you home.”

His hand gently releases yours and your heart sinks at the loss, but then it’s back. The pad of Raphael’s thumb drags across your knuckles as he sits in thought. Each pass of his thumb eases your anxiety. His quietude convinces you that he’s taking your concerns to heart. 

“I should call 'em,” he says hesitantly, like it’s a responsibility he knows he can’t put off any longer. “Ya got my pack lyin' 'round here somewhere?”

You drag your lower lip between your teeth, knowing you should have searched sooner. “There wasn’t one. I had to make sure you were gonna be OK before I checked the alley.”

Though leaving Raphael’s side isn’t something you feel ready to do, you know it’s time to show him what you found.

From the credenza at the front door, you retrieve the forked weapon and smashed communication device.

Raphael accepts both from you in stunned silence before setting the unpaired sai aside. The remains of the shell phone lie in pieces in his hands. 

“It must have gotten damaged during your fall from the roof.”

Raphael’s reluctance to speak with his brothers is replaced by urgency. “I gotta get back out there. If somebody stole that pack-” In his rush to stand, Raphael’s knees buckle and he lets out a pained grunt.

“Easy.”

“My bruthas could be in trouble.” Unsteady on his feet, he reaches out to find support. His hand clamps onto your shoulder with a grip strong enough to hold him up, but you marvel at his control. He doesn’t hurt you. Even when it would have been easy for him to get lost in his own panic and pain, to forget how fragile you are in comparison, he keeps your safety in mind. 

Instinctively, you do the same for him. With a hand on his waist, you draw attention to the fresh bandages protecting his side. “Raphael,” you warn him, “you’re in no condition to go out there.”

His eyes plead for your understanding, for your consent. “But I gotta.”

Your hand pets the exposed skin of Raphael’s hip and encourages him closer. You don’t want to watch him beg, but you can’t bear to look away. “Then, we go together. Tomorrow. After we’ve both gotten some real rest.” 

“But-” His anxious resolve is fading. He’s listening to you. 

_“Tomorrow.”_

Raphael touches the bandage at his side and his fingers meet yours. As he looks down at your hands together, the bulk of his impatience dissolves into a sigh. “Yeah. Yeah, alright,” he concedes. “Tomorrow.”

⁂

“Are you gonna make this weird?” you tease, pulling up the blankets to climb into the sofabed.

Raphael huffs as you lie back on the pillow opposite him. “I’m not gonna make it weird.”

“Really? Cause you’ve been looking everywhere but at me when I’m the only other person in the room, and I gotta say, that’s making it feel a little weird.”

“You’re da one makin’ it weird by talkin’ about it.”

“Uh huh.” Staring at the ceiling, you fill your lungs and heave a heavy sigh.

⁂

After discovering that an hour trading huffs and hums does nothing to dissipate the awkwardness, Raphael concedes defeat. “Y’know, I gotta admit, dis is weird.”

You roll onto your side to stare at the wall of blankets and couch cushions the turtle has piled between you. “Can’t imagine why." 

Weird or not, you leave the pillows in place. If they help Raphael feel even slightly better about sharing a bed, you won't pressure him into taking them down.

⁂

It’s a testament to your exhaustion that you’re able to fall asleep as easily as you do. You don’t mean to. Your intention is to stay up, to make sure Raphael is able to settle before you succumb to your need to rest. 

It’s the bounce of the mattress, the soft groans as Raphael struggles in discomfort, that wake you.

“What’s wrong?” you ask groggily, but as soon as you’re up, you know. You can feel the chill from the tip of your nose to the ache in your fingers. 

He says, “It’s nothin’,” like you can’t hear the chatter of his teeth.

You hug the heavy quilt around your shoulders and call his bluff. “You’re cold.”

“Gee, you must be a friggin’ mind reader.”

You secretly wish that were true. “I’m a nurse, actually. And warm-blooded. And even I'm freezing.”

There’s no response from beyond the wall.

With a sigh of exasperation, you take a calculated risk. One cushion at a time, you pull the barrier down. Raphael doesn’t protest. Surprisingly enough, you find him lying same as you were, facing the center of the bed, quilt drawn up to his chin. 

“The cold ain’t gonna kill me,” he insists.

Suppressing the urge to roll your eyes, you smile. “I can help with that, if you let me.”

“What, ya gonna kill me?” he jests.

You level him with a glare, but tease him in kind. “Maybe.”

"Ha." His laugh is one note, one puff of air straight from his chest. But it’s genuine, and even in the dark, you can see him return your smile. “Alright, alright. Easy, Killa.” 

As you're adjusting the blankets to better insulate and share your heat, Raphael goes still.

"Whaddaya got there?" he asks.

You play dumb. You know what he's asking. You're wearing a sleeveless top specifically to help share your body's warmth, so of course the scar on your shoulder is exposed. "What's what?"

The press of Raphael's fingertips beside the scar comes as a surprise. The old wound hurts the same as always - dull and persistent - but the chill of Raphael's fingers soothes the ache.

"It happened a long time ago. I was just a kid."

"You were just a kid," Raphael’s whisper is as soft as the touch of his fingertips as he traces the lines of the old wound. "Someone did this to a kid?"

"How do you know someone did this? Maybe I fell. Maybe it was surgery. Maybe-"

"Sure,” Raphael placates. His fingers continue to follow the dark branching veins that spread from your scar’s center. “Maybe. But it wasn't, was it?"

It’s your turn to look away. The memories of that night flood your mind - the loss of your father, the searing pain as a nameless poison stained your blood, your other parent’s listless stare as you wept. Crying didn’t solve anything back then. But now, for the first time in ages, your nose burns with the threat of oncoming tears.

You clear your throat and dash your hands over your eyes. In your rush to stave off the tears, you end up knocking Raphael’s hand off of your shoulder. The loss of his touch is all the worse knowing that his retreat is your fault. 

You want it back. You want Raphael close. Your mouth opens and closes without sound, your words trapped behind the lump in your throat. 

Frustrated and torn by your want to be held and your need to hold yourself together, you push your fists against your eyes and turn your face into your pillow. You let out a long breath in a rush.

The room is silent save for the squeaks of the mattress springs as Raphael shifts his position. He doesn’t say anything when he brings your hands down from your face. He’s quiet as he slides one of his hands over your shoulder and down your back. You don’t even think he’s breathing until you’re safely nestled within his embrace. 

“I don’t need you to pity me,” you mumble as he wraps you up in his arms.

“Pity? What pity?” With your cheek resting on his bicep, the soft caress of his fingers over your scalp eases your mind. His lips move against your hairline as he speaks. “You keep braggin’ about all that body heat. I'm just cashin’ in."

The lie is as much a comfort as the hand rubbing circles up and down your spine. 

A low churr vibrates within Raphael’s chest as you trace the lines of his plastron. It takes you by surprise; you think maybe it takes Raphael by surprise, as well. Still, he settles. You trace the line that divides his pectorals again. And when the churring picks up, it’s so strong it tickles the tips of your fingers. 

As if his response to your touch isn’t encouragement enough, Raphael inches toward you until you yield to your own desire and close the rest of the gap. The tension in Raphael's muscles relaxes, and his arms wrap around you in full. 

"I'm pretty friggin' cold," he admits like maybe it’s not the worst thing in the world. "So, I’m thinkin’ that I maybe gotta hold onto ya for a little while."

"Mhmm,” you hum, burrowing into the crook of his shoulder. “Can’t let all my work rescuing you go to waste." Your lazy smile curls against the warming skin of Raphael’s neck and your eyes drift closed once more. 

As you sink into each other’s embrace, Raphael rests his cheek upon your head. "Exactly my point."

Dreamily, you agree, "It's a good one."


	6. Goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time for Raphael to head home.

_Goodbye._ That word has caught your heart in a vice for as long as you can remember. Today it’s charged anew as you watch Raphael stir in his sleep. Your stomach twists at the thought of that word, of its history. You figure you’ll say, “See ya,” when you and Raphael part ways. But the meaning will be the same. 

Fear of goodbye is the reason you let Raphael hold you even after the power returned. It’s why you stayed in his arms long after the baseboard heat had warmed the room. It’s why, for hours, you remained in bed with him under the guise of sleep.

You’re dressed in a hoodie and sweatpants by the time Raph wakes up, but that doesn’t erase his memory of what lies beneath your shirt. Even as he rubs sleep from his eyes, he stares at your shoulder like the scar is still on display. 

Gingerly, Raphael pushes himself up to sit and lets the blankets pool in his lap. 

You pay no mind to his focused attention, or so you tell yourself. Instead, your thoughts drive you forward, urging you to fix the bandages that have started to peel off of Raphael’s side. Certainly, his fresh injuries are more deserving of attention than a wound that’s well over a decade old. 

Raphael, however, isn’t fooled by your fussing. “Your shoulder-” he stops your fidgeting with a hand on your wrist. “How did that really happen?”

Though you two had spent more time in bed swapping life stories than sleeping, you’d made sure to sidestep any topic that would steer the conversation back toward the scar.

You glance down. No matter how understanding Raphael had been, you knew more questions would come. No one carries around this kind of mark their whole life without people asking questions. 

You raise your hand to your shoulder and are comforted by the way Raphael’s hand comes along with it. “It was the Dragons,” you confess, thinking about the purple-tipped dagger the gang had passed around like your fear was a game. “They cornered me and my dad. The doctors said the poison never really left my body so...” So, you got stuck with this reminder. A jagged, puckered scar with lines dark as India ink branching out like a web.

Raphael’s thumb draws circles over your shoulder with precision; he remembers exactly where your scar lies hidden underneath your clothes. It’s too much - his unhurried touch, his attentive gaze. 

You listened to Raphael talk about his family as you laid together before sleeping the rest of the day away and you learned the way he cares for those he holds dear. He feels things - _everything_ \- intensely. With his whole heart. It’s how anger takes hold. Everything fuels it - fear, love, sadness. 

Now, you see his worry. And you wonder where that anger - that shield behind which he’s learned to hide his vulnerability - has gone. 

“Raph, I-”

Your phone trills, cutting you off with the alarm you’ve set for departure. You think, maybe it’s for the best. 

The sun set a few hours ago. It’s well past dark. “We should get going,” you say and you hope he doesn’t notice the tightness in your voice or the way your hands shake before you stuff them into your pockets.

⁂

Raphael insists on walking ahead, which is fine by you. It gives you a chance to admire your handiwork on his shell. 

_"Are you sure?" You had asked, looking down at a picture of the characters he’d worn when you found him. But you understood. By then, you had gained understanding that this was part of his mask, part of his armor._

_"That's me.” Raphael rolled his shoulders back defensively, but the way he shifted on the stool had betrayed his fear of rejection. “And if you don't like it-"_

_It wasn’t that you didn’t like it, or didn’t respect what it stood for. But you had something else in mind._

_Your phone clunked against the table when you shoved it toward him._

_He stared at the screen, frozen. He swallowed hard but didn’t look away. "Yuuki? Naw. That's not for me… that's-"_

_“It’s OK.” You could see he was getting agitated and you didn’t know the story of the Kanji or much about the Bushido code, so you weren’t going to force the issue. But you wanted him to know, “Since I’ve known you… and from all you’ve told me… This is who I see, Raphael.”_

_By way of answer, Raphael brought up an image of the characters Michelangelo had been spray painting on his shell since they were teenagers. You looked up at him as he placed the phone in your hand._

_“Please,” he said._

_“Teach me,” you replied._

_Anticipating the touch of your paintbrush to his shell, Raphael held his breath. His arms flexed as they tightened around the back of the chair he was straddling. The tick of his jaw matched the pat of his hands as he nervously drummed a beat against his elbows._

_You weren’t sure if it was the act of being marked or the suggestion you made to change his characters that had him anxious, but you stood behind him, ready to stop at a word. This was for him. And if he didn’t trust you with this, if he didn’t want it-_

_“...ya start yet?” Raphael asked. The way he sat, with his face tucked into his forearms, made his question nearly inaudible. But you didn’t think he was really looking for an answer. He knew you hadn’t touched his shell. Because the moment you placed your non-dominant hand upon it, you heard his sharp intake of breath. You felt his body quiver with it._

_You paused, allowing him time to get used to your touch. “Should I…”_

_Raphael nodded against his arms. And when you brought the paintbrush down to the hard scales of his back, he released his breath in a rush._

_With slow strokes, you followed the diagram Raphael had drawn out. There was an order to the characters; you would get it right._

_Each time you lifted the brush for more paint, Raphael rose into the palm of your other hand. It was as if he missed the pressure, as if he needed the contact. So, you slid your hand along the edge of his carapace in languid sweeps as you worked. You let yourself get lost in it - in the brushstrokes, in the quiet, in the notches and grooves of his shell._

And now Raphael walks with his kanji emblazoned on his back, but you don’t see the bright red characters as a marker of unprovoked violence. Not after everything Raphael and his brothers have been through. Not after the effort Raphael has put into his training and the growth he’s described in not as many words. 

You believe the characters are a testament to his strength and bravery and compassion. When he’s in control of it, Raphael’s anger is his ammunition and his shield.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket as you and Raphael turn a corner. He doesn’t lead you much further before he finds an alley that “looks familiar.” Nonetheless, it still takes him a solid minute to find what he’s looking for under the snow.

Once the manhole cover is clear, Raphael lifts it and sets it aside with ease. 

“So, eh, ya comin’ down or what?”

You look at the giant mutant turtle standing in front of you and at the open sewer beneath your feet, and you smile knowing that life can’t possibly get any weirder than this. You smile as you lean into it. And you smile with the realization that you’re finally excited to see where life wants to take you. It’s brought you to him. And you want to see how far this will go. 

But your damn phone won’t stop buzzing with requests from work. 

“It’s Damian again.” Your Nurse Manager has been trying to bribe people into work with promises of free pizza. You had texted back, _'How about double-time?,’_ nearly an hour ago. 

You frown at the response that just came through. ‘ _I got you for time-and-a-half.’_ You can’t turn down the money. “I gotta go into work,” you say apologetically.

“Oh. Right. Well...” Raphael looks down at the ladder and his brow creases with dark thoughts.

Your hand rises and falls. You’d like to touch him, to hold onto him, but to what end? “You could come by sometime, y’know. Talk to your brothers, clear the air. Then, come and tell me all about it over take out or somethin’.” 

He probably figures you’ve invited him for greasy, MSG-loaded Chinese, but you know you’ll pull a bait and switch. Recruit him as a sous chef. All his boasting about being a ninja and you’ve yet to see his knife skills in action. “Whaddaya say, Red? Dinner at mine?”

Raphael shuffles in place, scratches the back of his head, and gives a half-hearted shrug. 

“Maybe bring your brothers around,” you say, so he knows you have no qualms about meeting them. “I know I live in a pretty rough neighborhood,” you joke to cut the tension, “but I hear you turtle guys know a thing or two about fighting. Maybe you can teach me…”

Raphael seems to perk up at that, but you can’t help but poke fun at him just a little. “On second thought, maybe I should take another class at the Community Center. You did get your ass handed to you yesterday.” 

“Hey, if I hadn’t been pushed-”

_Was it really only yesterday?_ Your eyes drift over his injuries, impressed with how quickly he’s healing. “Just keep your feet on the ground, alright?” 

This time, when your stomach flips, you give into the urge to reach out to Raphael. Laying a hand on his forearm, you draw in some of his courage. “And if ya don’t wanna bring around your brothers. If, maybe, you wanna visit - just you and me - that’d be fine, too.” Your smile widens as you tighten your grip and bring yourself a step closer. 

Raphael’s cheeks flush. You think all is going well until he steps out of your reach and you come to the conclusion that maybe you can’t read Raphael as well as you thought.

His hands are up and his eyes are on the ground as he backs away. “I-I ain’t some cursed prince, y’know. What ya see is what ya get.”

“I like what I see.” He has to know that by now. You need him to know that. “Is this about me going into work? Bring me down to your place when I’m done. I’m not scared to see where you live. I want to know you.”

“I gotta go,” he says. And out of respect, you have to let him.

“Raphael.” You call out his name as he turns toward the ladder. Your heart pounds against your chest at the thought of never seeing him again. “Here,” you say, reaching into the pocket of your parka. “It’s not much. Just an antibiotic. Apply it twice a day, when you change your bandages.”

The tube of cream is dwarfed by his palm, but he accepts the ointment with a small word of thanks.

“A-and,” you stall as he starts to turn again, “I know you said your brother helps out with the med stuff. You can tell Donatello the stitches shouldn’t be removed yet.”

“OK.” 

You take a deep breath as Raphael stands at the edge of the manhole, knowing these words are your goodbye. “Give it about four or five days, OK? But no longer than that.”

“OK.”

“A-and, Raph,” you hold up your hand as he prepares to jump, and he waits.

“Yeah, ___?” 

You bite your lips together to keep yourself from saying something stupid, something revealing, something you can’t take back, “Nevermind.”

Raphael nods. 

“Take care of yourself,” you say, finally, and when he looks up this time the turtle is holding his injured side and wearing a small smile.

“Ya killin’ me with all this red light green light, y’know.”

You wince. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to-”

“See ya in about four or five days,” he interjects.

Your eyebrows shoot up. “Wha-?”

“To take out the stitches. Ya think I’m gonna trust Donnie with dis pretty face?”

Your heart leaps and you’re smiling so hard that it hurts. “OK. Yeah. OK. Four or five days.” 

⁂

You walk home with a bounce in your step and your head in the clouds and your eyes on your phone. You have to text Damian confirmation that you’ll be in as soon as you can.

There’s no foreboding change in the air. No dark clouds rolling in. No ominous music playing, when you’re jumped. There’s only figures dressed in black, a soaked cloth over your mouth, and the clatter of your phone as it hits the pavement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've added a tag for Canon-Typical Violence specifically for Chapter 7: Seeing Red. If you are here for the warm & fuzzies only, skip ahead to Chapter 8 (when it's posted). Of course, if you aren't thrown by TMNT Purple Dragon/Foot Clan-style shenanigans, Chapter 7 should be fine. If you have any questions about the chapter, please don't hesitate to ask me @sylvain-writes on tumblr.


	7. Seeing Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Your scar comes into play. You meet some new people.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're here for warm and fuzzies only, this is the chapter to skip.  
> Canon-Typical Violence.

_ Drip. Drip. Drip. _

Wet stone presses imperfect dimples into your cheek where you lay. There's a metallic tang on your tongue, a familiar pain radiating down your arm. The air is close. You lie for a minute, just breathing. Listening. Taking in your surroundings without daring to open your eyes.

Raphael spoke endlessly about growing up in the sewers, and you know immediately this isn’t it. There’s no feeling of home. This isn't a place of safety.

You hear someone coming. Multiple sets of footsteps. The whisper of something being dragged down a long corridor. The heavy thump of that something being dumped somewhere to your left.

“What do you think he’ll do with them?” A voice sneers from above you.

A second voice speaks with authority. “Keep the antidote. Kill the freak.”

Footsteps fade and you think they’re gone.

A drug-induced fatigue leadens your limbs, but you push yourself onto your knees. Your elbows lock and arms tremble, but you crawl to the stone wall without collapse. Your eyes sting. Even in the dark, you can tell your vision has been compromised by whatever sedatives course through your veins. Your lungs burn, aching to cough, but you fight the urge. 

Silence is your best friend. 

The only light is that which shines from bare bulbs that adorn the stone walls. But they’re spaced so far apart that they hardly give any light to your cell at all. 

And that’s what this is, you realize. A cell. You’ve been abducted. And now, you’re a prisoner. In some kind of dungeon.

The pair of guards return, shrouded in black, faces obscured. They approach the bars that cage you in, muttering to themselves. Their words are muffled by the fabric that covers all but their eyes. 

The bright clang of metal on metal fills your ears and echoes against the confines of your skull. You narrow your eyes at the guards, trying to think through the migraine you woke up with.

Had you any strength left in your arms and legs, you’d move toward the gate. You’d prepare yourself to fight. But as you are, you rest your throbbing head back against the damp wall. 

You recognize the weapon held in the guard’s fist as he drags it across the bars of your cell. It's a perfect match for Rafael's sai. 

_ No.  _ You swallow the word. The sai is a perfect match, except for the center prong. What had been blunt for Raphael's use in non-lethal combat, has since been sharpened to a dark-stained point. 

A sharp jolt of pain shoots down from your shoulder through your fingertips, like the sai has triggered a physical memory your mind hasn’t caught up with. A whimper escapes your throat. 

The guards’ interest in you shifts from amused to sinister. Your blood runs cold. Just as quickly, however, the figure to your left, imprisoned in their own cell, calls out. 

“Over here assholes!”

A loud *BANG* shakes the bars.

“The  _ freak _ wants some more.”

You take a breath. You try to reason.  _ ‘If they're The Freak,’ _ you think, ‘ _ then that makes you…’ _

You remember the day in flashes. Images of sharp focus that quickly blur and fade.    
A table. Restraints. An empty vial.    
A maniac in a mask. 

The teasing press of Raphael’s sai against your skin. Laughter as the maniac sharpens the weapon and prods you again. 

And, again, the vile. Not so empty anymore.

_ ‘...The Antidote.’ _

A sound like thunder echoes down the cell block. You hope the banging means a rescue, but the bored groans of your captors make it obvious this is nothing new.

“Hey!” You hear the voice shout. The next bang is louder. “Whadda you think you’re doing, huh? Let us outta here and  _ maybe _ I’ll let you live.”

The guards laugh as they turn toward the threat.

You drag yourself closer to the division between cells and press your forehead against the bars. The banging starts up again. Incessant.

It’s overwhelming: the noise, your double vision, your racing heart. The aftereffects of chloroform and whatever else the captors have you on is nauseating. Your headache intensifies. 

You take steadying breaths, but still your mouth waters like you’re gonna be sick. 

The guards have started yelling back. Whatever the other captive is saying, whatever they’re doing, it’s keeping the attention off of you. Their insults land hard, infuriating the shorter of the two guards, inciting them to grab a staff from behind their back and prod their prisoner like cattle. 

Electricity arcs. The crackle and pop of the device sets the guards off laughing. 

You cry out when they turn up the power and the shadowy figure’s knees hit the floor. But still, the prisoner fights back. Spits at your captors. Scolds their lack of honor and flawlessly picks at their insecurities.

_ ‘An idiot,’  _ you think. ‘ _ He's going to get himself killed.’ _

“Stop,” you rasp. Your throat is so dry, you wonder if anyone's heard you. You don't have to wonder for long.

“Well, look who's ready to join the party.” The guards look like they're coming your way before a far-off shout calls their attention. Twirling the stained point of the sai under their finger, the shorter guard promises, “Later, then.” With a jerk of their head toward the doorway, they snap their cloak behind them and go.

When the guards are gone you hear the other prisoner drag themself across the floor for the bars that divide your cells. They remain in the shadows. Under the fog of drugs, your vision is unreliable at best, but they look huge.

Inwardly, you smile.  _ You’ve seen bigger.  _ But your smile dies before it reaches your lips. You release a shaky breath as you simultaneously wish Raphael were here and thank everything you believe in that he isn’t. Though it feels like nothing short of a fantasy, you imagine he’s out there somewhere figuring out a way to get you out of this mess. But it’s ridiculous. He thinks you’re at work. Raphael won’t even realize you’re missing for close to a week.

“Are you OK?” The other prisoner asks. 

You don’t know how they can be so calm. You don't ask them to explain how they’re conscious after being hit with so much electricity. You've seen how quickly Raphael has healed; you’re starting to believe that nothing is impossible. 

Instead of further questioning your companion’s strength, you count it as a blessing. Still… “Was that a taser?” 

“Heh.” Your companion is cocky. If only that were enough to overpower the guards. “Don’t worry about me. How are you?”

“They have me drugged. I can’t…” You take slow breaths to calm your nerves and your stomach. In through your nose. Out through your mouth. “There’s something wrong with my eyes.”

“Yeah. They tried that on me too. It’ll wear off. I, uh, know this sounds like shit advice, but you should try and sleep off the drugs.”

“Right. Sleep? Here?”

“I promise no one will touch you again.”

“How can you-”

“I’ll keep ‘em busy.”

“I can’t ask you to do that.”

“Who’s askin’?”

⁂

The sound of something slamming into cell bars wakes you. You don’t know how long you’ve been out, but the effects of the drugs are slowly wearing off like the other prisoner had promised. Even so, you’re left with a sensitivity to light, sound, and smell. And every turn of your head makes you woozy. But when push comes to shove, you think you’ll be able to run.

You don’t give yourself away to the guards. You know better. Let them see you as weak; they’ll underestimate you and maybe you’ll find a window for escape. 

The shouting starts up again. Truth be told, the other prisoner’s speech is rather unremarkable, but every now and again you hear them drop an ‘r’ and your core aches for your red-banded warrior. 

Another slam. Despite what they’ve suffered, the other captive is relentless. No, not only relentless; they’re, “Fearless.”

_ Oh.  _

Whatever the other captive was doing ceases after you whisper the word. 

“What did you say?” The other captive asks, winded.

“You’re Fearless.”

You hear them breathing hard through their nose.

“Red was-”

Spoken, the color infuses the stranger with new vigor. You hear them scramble across their cell. A pair of large green hands grip the bars as your companion’s voice rises in question, “You know Raph? Where is he? Is he here? How is he?”

You recognize the tattered bindings on his knuckles for what they are. You know which of Rafael's brothers wears blue. Any doubt of this turtle’s identity is gone.

“I don’t know,” you answer him with honesty and concern. “I took him in when the storm hit. He had fallen. He was injured… I had just walked him home before I was taken.” You lift your hand to your head and bring it down, your fingers are wet and dark. The unrelenting migraine and lightheadedness make more sense.

“Is he...” Leonardo pauses as if struggling to wrap his head around the question. “Is he OK? Is he gonna be OK?”

“Yeah. And, I mean, you’ll see for yourself, right? Once we get ourselves outta this mess.” You feel dizzy and faint and the pain in your arm is excruciating. You know if you don’t lie down, you’ll injure yourself worse with a fall. “We  _ are  _ gonna get outta here, aren’t we?” You can feel yourself drifting in and out of consciousness as you curl into a ball. You don’t hear a response before the world slips away.

⁂

When you wake again it’s to the feel of a callused hand gripping your arm, giving you a rough shove. A quiet voice rumbles in your ear. “We gotta go.”

Your head pounds. The room spins. A broad, green face looms over you and your heart leaps. But as the world comes into focus, you see the eyes staring down at you are a striking shade of blue.  _ Not Raphael,  _ your mind supplies and your heart drops into your stomach.  _ Not Raphael. _

He’s trying to keep to the shadows, not wanting to frighten you, perhaps not trusting you won’t be shocked by his appearance. And when he steps into the light, you do cringe, but not because of his reptilian face or humanoid eyes, but because he's in worse shape than the Raph-sicle you found in the alley. 

“I'm ‘The Freak’,” he says, extending his hand and thinking he's reading your mind.

“I'm ‘The Antidote’. Apparently.” With your injured arm hugged tightly to your chest, you slide your other hand into his. Though you know he’ll pull you up at any second, you sag against the bars for one last breath.

“It's Leo,” he corrects his introduction.

“Ah,” you say like it’s a revelation, “so this is what a lion looks like up close.”

“Huh?”

You quirk an eyebrow at him and wince when even that hurts. “Your brother has a better sense of humor.”

With a crooked smile, he lifts a shoulder and lets it drop. “All of them do.” Leo hoists you to your feet and the world tilts on its axis. You think you’re going to be sick. “We gotta go,” he insists. 

You look at him. Really look. He’s been burned. Beaten. Bruised. “How did you get past the-?” As you stumble into the hallway, you almost trip over the bodies sprawled over the floor. “Oh.”

The thunderous footfalls coming down the stone staircase startle you to attention. 

Leo readies himself to fight. “Do you remember when they brought you down here? Is there another way out?”

You don’t remember a thing, and just the strain of trying to think has your temples throbbing. “I don’t know.”

“Then, no offense but, try to stay outta the way,” he says. Then, crossing the distance with leaps and bounds, Leonardo dashes down the hall and up the stairs. 

Beyond your field of vision, sounds of Leo’s attacks bounce off the stone, a confusing cacophony. You wait. There are cries and crashes and the clashing of swords. There are shouts for help and yelps of pain, until only one voice remains. 

“Coast is clear.”

You hurry to the staircase and try to keep your eyes off the evidence of the fight. Your vision doubles and you feel like you can’t take another step, but Leo urges you on. Finally, you reach the top of the stairs and find yourselves in a large room. From the looks of the idols and altars, you guess this has to be some kind of temple or shrine. 

There’s no time to consider alternatives. A crash overhead sends shards of stained glass raining down from the skylights. Leo keeps you on the move. 

Running alongside him across the wide room, you search frantically for a door. “Where’s the exit?” you gasp before realizing Leo isn’t looking for one.

Looming larger with each stride you take toward it, a wall of ceremonial weapons comes into focus. 

Another crash of glass is the only warning you receive before a trio of ninjas drop down from the ceiling. 

“Nice of you to show up,” Leo quips as his brothers find their footing. 

“Better late than never,” the purple-banded turtle announces. He’s breezy and matter-of-fact, like the temple isn’t swarming with very bad people wanting to do very bad things.

Raphael has landed heavily in front of you. You stumble back as he turns, tripping over your own feet, but you’re able to steady yourself on a rack of swords. Your bobble goes unnoticed as Leo takes up a pair of katanas from the display. 

“Tell me you guys came here with a plan.”

“Yeah,” comes Raphael’s gruff response. “Get your ass outta here. That’s the plan.” The familiar grunt of exasperation lifts your spirits, but they can only rise so high before a wave of vertigo has you swaying into the weapon rack again. 

A blade clatters to the ground and Raphael’s attention follows the sound. His eyes land on you and for a moment everything stops. He takes a step back like your presence has literally knocked the wind out of him. And, as if the air has been stolen from the room, you find yourself, likewise, unable to breathe.

“Wh…” He starts and stops as he blinks at you and you know he’s taking in your injuries. 

You must look worse off than you thought because when he reaches out, his hands hover without touch. You’re desperate to feel the strength of them when your own hands feel so weak. But, unsure where to touch without causing you pain, Raphael holds back. 

Emotions war over his features - surprise, worry, fear, sadness. You’re surprised by how much sadness you can see in his eyes. 

“OK. New plan,” Raphael says. His words are for Leo but his eyes are still on you. 

You can see the wheels in his head turning as he knocks his forehead with his fist. 

"Got it." He smacks his hands together, one loud clap, and just like that, you see it. The flash in his eyes. Raphael's defenses slam like a steel door with anger locking it into place, preparing him for what’s next. 

He turns to Leo with a snarl. “Mikey’s gonna take ___ outta here. And you, and me, and Donnie are gonna tear these bastards apart.”

“Raph-” You bite your tongue. You don’t mean to interrupt in the middle of all this. You don't want to be a distraction, to be in the way. But you don’t want to leave him; you don’t think you can bear another goodbye.

When Raphael’s gaze finds you again, it’s resolute and pleading. He speaks a command and an apology in one. “Go with Mikey.” Concern slips through the cracks in his armor. He brings his face close, drops his voice low. “He’ll keep ya safe.” 

It’s only after you nod in consent that he turns his sights on the army of tattooed Dragons. Soldiers drop down from the ceiling and file in from all sides. 

The flurry of activity makes your head spin, your ears ring. You think Mikey is shouting at his brothers, asking to stay. Somebody is throwing around numbers like they’re arguing the odds. But there’s too much going on for you to keep it all straight. 

“Mikey,” Raphael growls through clenched teeth, “go, now!”

The orange-banded turtle hauls you away from the fight as the Dragons descend upon Donnie and Leo like a wave.

After one last look at you, Raphael dives into the fray - a streak of red in the blur of purple, blue, and black.

  
  
  
  



	8. Bitter and Sweet

Since passing out in the Turtle Van, you’re not sure how much time has passed. You regained consciousness several times to the excitement of blue eyes and brown, but it feels like forever since you’ve seen Raphael. 

  
In the space between asleep and awake, memories fuel your concern. You remember being taken, finding Leo, your escape through the temple. You remember Michelangelo stealing you away and Raphael disappearing into the madness. When you wake in the lair this time, it’s with a strangled cry.

Mikey looks up from the table, startled by your shout. You stare at him for a moment to catch your breath, but he doesn’t stare back at you. His gaze is affixed to a point above. Turning your head, you follow. You don't realize you’re lying with your head in Raphael’s lap until you’re looking up at him. 

In periphery to your vision, there’s movement. Donatello has entered the room. He and Mikey discuss something amongst themselves. But Raphael's hand alights to your head and you sigh. He brushes his fingers over your hairline and you can’t focus on anything but the relief of having him close.

“Ya guys can beat it,” Raphael grunts. Though he shoos his brothers away, his sights are set on you. There’s no anger in his voice or his eyes. “I got it from here.”

“Right,” Donnie says shortly. Then, dutifully, he reminds his brother of your care. “Poultice, tea, anti-inflammatories-”

“I said, I got it,” Raphael raises his voice at that, but only enough to get his point across. “Now, the two o’ you, get the shell outta here.”

After a bit of commotion, and what sounds like the a fight over who can leave the room more quickly, you and Raphael are alone.

His thumb brushes over a lump on your forehead and though his touch is a comfort, you wince. “How do you guys go through this every night?”

Raph frowns. He's apologetic,  _ guilty,  _ when he admits, “It ain’t always like that.” Your stomach drops when he looks away from you, even though his eyes only leave you for a second. There’s pain in his expression as he asks, “Where does it hurt?”

“Hmph.” The effort it takes for you to lift your arm is substantial, but you manage to gesture a wave over your body as you lay. “Everywhere.”

“There’s Tylenol on the tray,” he explains, but he’s already reaching for the water glass and pills. 

You have to roll onto your side to take them and find that although the position makes it impossible to look up at Raphael, you’re more comfortable. The fabric of Raphael’s sweatpants is well worn. His muscles under your cheek have just enough give. You snuggle in. And when Raphael’s heavy hand comes to rest on your side, you settle. “Is this alright?”

“I don’t gotta be anywhere but here,” Raph drawls. The lazy lines he draws over the crown of your head tingle down your spine. You’d like to stay awake, but the safety of Raphael’s presence eases you to sleep.

⁂

When you wake in the lair again, you think a few hours have passed. Maybe a day. Muffled voices rise and fall in the next room. Curious, restless, you move to sit.

As before, Mikey is hovering nearby, waiting to announce your every movement like it’s his job. You think,  _ Maybe it is. _

“Dude,” Donatello chides. “Space.” The bespectacled turtle adjusts his glasses as he muddles herbs in a small stone bowl. “Sorry,” he apologizes to you, but you shrug it off.

“It’s fine,” you croak through your dry throat. 

“But you’re up! You OK?” At Donnie’s direction, Mikey's taken a step back from the couch. Even so, he greets you with enthusiasm.

You shake your head, unsure. “Almost. Can I get a little help?”

Without missing a beat in his work, Donatello kicks his younger brother - a quick strike of his heel to the back of Mikey's knee. Mikey’s stance falters, for just a second, before he whips his head around to scowl. Donatello jerks his chin toward a tunnel in a silent reminder.

“Oh! I should tell Raph you’re up.” Mikey takes care in helping you to your feet, though he still jostles your shoulder more than you would have preferred. 

“I think I can manage that myself,” you say, but Mikey remains at your side until you both feel like you're steady. The voices in the next room get louder, then hush. “Just follow the arguing, right?”

Mikey looks from Donatello to you with a hint of amusement. “You really do know Raph.”

You choose to ignore the wisecrack to make your way down the tunnel. It’s slow going, but soon you’re leaning against the wall at an entrance to a large room. Judging by the mats, the training equipment, and the walls of weapons, you can tell you’ve stumbled upon the dojo. 

In front of a small altar of incense and candles, the brothers engage in a heated discussion.

“You can’t keep going out there alone.” There's an edge to the blue-banded turtle's order, and an even sharper one to the reply.

“I ain’t waiting for them to come back, Leo.”

Your cheeks burn as you watch the brothers square off against each other. This isn't what you want for them. 

“It’s done, man. They’re gone.”

“You can’t say that for sure.” Raphael paces as he seethes. “Ya don’t know. What they did to ya, what they did to…”

Exhaustion heavy in his voice, Leonardo insists, “You heard Donatello. All that’s over.”

Raphael’s large knuckles are white in his fists, but he keeps them at his sides. “I gotta be sure, Leo. Every last one of ‘em’s gotta pay for what they did.”

The eldest draws out his sigh. “We gotta be smart about this-”

“Oh, and I’m not smart? I’m just the big, dumb idiot, right? Got all of us into this shit, so it’s frickin’  _ unfathomable _ that I could get us out. Right?”

“Raph-” Leo starts in, but you’ve seen enough.

“I thought you two were supposed to be making amends or something.” Although you stand at the entrance, you're sure they can hear your voice waver as it carries across the room.

“We were just clearin’ the air,” Raphael grumbles. But the expressions he and Leo wear assure you nothing has been resolved.

Waving his hands in the air, Leo tosses in the towel. He doesn’t acknowledge Raphael with a ‘goodbye’ or a ‘good luck’ when he leaves him. He passes you, however, on his way out; and with a nod as he goes, he says, “Glad you’re up.”

You give him a nod in return. There are things you need to say to him, to all of the guys, but Raphael comes first. “Can we talk?”

“Yeah,” Raphael answers, and you’d think he was just given devastating news. “We should talk.” He gestures down the tunnel with a sweep of his hand. “My room’s down there. It’s private. I’ll, uh, be there in a minute.”

You hesitate at the edge of the mat long enough to see Raphael isn’t hanging back to alleviate his frustrations by punching dummies or throwing shuriken at targets. His slow steps take him to the altar, where he lights a new stick of incense. He touches a folded pile of cloth and bows. You know the significance of this spot. A memorial for their father. When Raphael’s knees touch the ground, you turn away. He deserves the quiet moment to himself.

In the tunnel, Mikey’s waiting to lead you to the door across from his quarters. But even if he hadn’t pointed out which room was Raphael’s, you think you could have figured it out. The mismatched drum kit. The knit bedspread. The band posters on the wall, curling at the corners. The desk, covered in comics and cds. Even the melancholy tune playing from the boombox at the head of the bed. It all just kinda fits him -- the guy who’s half in his head, half in his fists. The guy who has so much heart that sometimes he can’t contain it. 

Raphael’s footsteps are heavy. You’d recognize his approach even among his similarly built brothers. Mikey’s presence has been a comfort, but with the way your heart clenches at the sight of Raphael, the youngest turtle’s company can’t compare.

Raphael mumbles for the young turtle to scram as he shuffles in. The tray of medicines is full but small in his hands. You hug yourself as you survey the blend of treatments from the East and West. It’s an impressive array.  _ Their father taught them well, _ you think;  _ he would be proud. _

You start to say as much before stopping. It’s not your place. Even though it feels like you’ve known Raphael much longer than a few days, you don’t know enough about his relationship with his father to make that kind of statement. 

Taking care to balance the tray upon the mattress, Raphael kneels in front of where you’re seated at his desk. Your lungs ache with the strain of a forgotten breath. 

Unable to hold himself back, Raphael reaches out for you. His strong hands are warm when they find your shins. Perhaps they picked up the heat by coincidence while he prepared the pot of tea. But, maybe, he had warmed them on purpose. 

His hands slide up to the bend of your knees until they come to rest upon the sides of your thighs and you shiver. His grip on you tightens as he looks you over, assessing the worst of your injuries. The way his eyes are trained on your face, then your arms, you can tell he deliberately avoids your shoulder. 

His eyes lock on the gash over your left eye. He sniffs shortly before taking a small square of gauze off the tray. It’s astringent smell reminds you of the night you were taken away.

You flinch and he freezes and you both whisper, “Sorry,” on an exhale. 

In his eyes you see he doesn’t quite understand why the smell of alcohol would set your heart racing and your throat tight, but you’d rather let the moment pass than explain it to him.  _ He’s only trying to help,  _ you remind yourself.  _ This is Raphael;  _ you’re safe with Raphael.

When you’re ready, you nod for him to continue. You drop your gaze from the sad confusion in his stare and focus on the stitches in his lip, instead. They’ll be ready to come out any day. 

Raphael brings the gauze up to the wound above your eye slowly, tentatively. “Did Donatello have a look at ya?” he asks, as if to fill the silence.

You wonder if this is what he’s like - if he’s usually one to fill silences with questions to which he already knows the answer. But when you have a closer look at him, you notice the deep crease of his brow and the tight hunch of his shoulders. Maybe it’s common for him or maybe it isn’t, but you realize he needs the silence filled. At least, for now. 

With a hand over his wrist, you assure him, “He’s seen me.”

At that, Raphael expels a long stream of air. When he inhales again it’s like he’s been waiting for assurance of your safety before allowing himself to breathe. His split lip relaxed with his sigh and you wonder how his other wounds are faring. He heals so quickly, it’s hard to tell by sight alone.

“Have I been down here long?” you ask, your thoughts returning to his stitches.

“It’s Thursday,” he says. But that’s all he gives you before shifting the conversation. “I been makin’ that soup ya like.” He gives your forehead a final dab of antiseptic before bringing his hands to his lap. “Ya ain’t eat nothin’, though. When ya’d wake up, it wasn’t for long.” Raphael mentions the soup like he’s disappointed in himself. Like the soup was a cure all that had failed you, like somehow  _ he  _ had failed you.

You lay a hand on your stomach, but you think the empty feeling there has less to do with a lack of food and more with the hollow tone in Raphael’s voice. “Maybe later.”

Raphael nods, his head hanging low even as he reaches for the old teapot. 

Raphael pours tea like he’s done so many times in ceremony with his brothers. He won’t hand it over until it’s perfect. He adds a bit of honey and a leaf of mint. He takes a sip, then cools the drink with a gentle blow. Finally, he offers the cup to you. 

“Oh.” As the cup passes into your hands, he tries to pull back. He apologizes, as if he’s just remembered something important. But you don’t let him backtrack; you don’t let him feel badly for testing the temperature and bitterness of the tea he’s prepared. You accept the drink without hesitation. 

With a flush to his cheeks, Raphael busies himself with the work of crumbling herbs into a bowl of water. But there are hidden glances. He’s waiting for you to have a taste. He seems to hold his breath as you bring the cup to your lips.

You take it in sips as he soaks a cloth in the small basin. The drink is almost too sweet, but there’s an oddly familiar scent carried on its steam. The tea tastes the way your scented candle had smelled and you wonder if this is medicinal or if it’s just what Raphael thinks you like. Eventually, you’re hit with the aftertaste of herbs so bitter they just about numb your tongue and you think, perhaps the tea is both.

You let Raphael cleanse your wounds with the cloth he’s soaked and then apply fresh salve with a soft brush. He starts with your eye and foregoes your shoulder, and there's no doubt now that he’s avoiding that wound for a reason.

The salve stings at first, but Raphael cradles your face in his hands and blows a cool stream of air over the gash. The breeze cuts through the pain until the medicine soothes. 

“You’re warm,” Raphael murmurs, his thumbs rubbing along the line of your jaw as he adjusts his position in front of you. “You sure that’s normal?”

Raphael’s hands on your cheeks are cool now, but any hint of fever you had is long gone. You hum your contentment and lift your uninjured arm. Raphael makes a small sound of concern at the movement. Despite the way it twists your heart to have him ignore your shoulder, the delicacy of the little pop in his throat is such a contrast to his bulk that it almost brings a smile to your face.

“I’m not gonna break,” you say to quell his fear. And you bring your hand down upon Raphael’s head. For a guy who once said he was no one’s pet, he responds to physical comfort with the greed of someone who is constantly denied what they crave. He melts under your touch. You rake your nails over Raphael's scalp and he bows his head. He allows your touch, uninterrupted for a minute, before he remembers the bowl in his hands and regains his composure.

“Does it hurt?” he asks, not really meeting your gaze as he swirls the brush through the medicine and passes it over your forehead again. 

“Yes,” you respond with a soft smile. Your fingers continue their exploration, now trailing around Raphael’s ear with short pets and long caresses. 

When Raphael stills, his attention has finally fallen to your shoulder. His speech starts and stops and you see that only by not acknowledging it was Raphael able to hold himself together this long. “I… I gotta put this on the… On your…”

“It’s OK,” you assure him, exposing the old and recent wound.

When Raphael sees it, his nostrils flare and his eyes take on a sheen of regret. You quickly cover your shoulder again, if only to save him from the sight for a minute. “I didn’t want this for ya,” he says, quavering.

“It wasn’t you.” Your voice breaks and you wish you could rewind. You wish you could steel yourself and try again.

The tremor in Raphael’s hands reminds you of your first meeting. It's enough that you take the bowl of salve from him before he drops it. You bring his hands to your lap and tell him, this time slower, stronger. “It wasn’t you.”

Raphael shakes his head as he stands, and for a fleeting moment you think he’s going to leave the room. That’s still your fear, you realize. That he’ll leave; that he’ll be gone. That you’ll be strangers before you can be more. But he only goes as far as his bed, to sit upon the edge and bury his face in his hands. 

“It was my fault _. _ It was my sai. If I hadn’t gone topside that night… If Leo hadn’t followed… If I hadn’t let myself get distracted and taken that fall…”

You stand to face him. “Then we wouldn’t have met.”

The song playing in the background changes and Raphael sags under the weight of foreign lyrics you don't understand.

“I ain’t supposed to get a happy ending.” His eyes lift toward a movie poster you hadn’t noticed before. You should have known he was a romantic at heart. A part of you did, you suppose. 

With a hand on his cheek, you bring his attention back to you. “It doesn’t have to be that way.” 

With a shake of his head, he drops his gaze to the hand that hangs at your side. He takes it up and begins the careful work of picking glass and gravel from your palm. With a click of his tongue he sneers; it’s a self-deprecating sound. “This is just the way it is.”

His fingers pluck at your skin like he’s done this before. For you. You wonder how many hours he’s sat with your hands in his, picking glass out of your wounds so they could close.

You lay your other hand atop of his in a request for his undivided attention. “I don’t know anything about happily ever after, but I'm not going to let you end something between us that hasn't even started."

"Please.” When he looks up again, he isn’t trying to hide the trembling in his lip. His eyes glisten as he begs for you to let him win this argument. “Being with me puts you in danger."

You draw back your shirt collar, exposing your shoulder once again. "I've been in danger since long before I met you."

His hand comes up, covering the wound like his touch can heal. You wish it could. A part of you believes it does. The hardness of your heart has softened; he's someone you want to let in. You won’t let him push you away so easily. 

"I wanna keep ya safe,” he says. “I need ya safe.” There’s a pause as his breath catches in his throat. “When I saw you in the temple…” His voice cracks, but he forces himself to go on. “When I saw what they'd done… I had almost lost ya and I didn’t even know."

"It's Ok." 

Raphael’s hands and voice are shaking so much he can’t continue. He turns away, hanging his head. His hands curl into fists against his temples. 

Standing in front of him, you lay a hand upon his arm. You smooth your fingertips down to his wrist. You massage deep circles into the pressure point below his thumb. His fists are massive and his muscles are hard, but your persistent touch coaxes the tension from his fingers. 

Raphael lets out a halting breath. As he struggles to find his center, his hands reach out for you. They only go as far as the hem of your shirt, where he tugs at a split seam and frowns. Though the pain in your shoulder screams for you to keep still, you cradle Raphael’s face in both of your hands.

“Look at me,” you whisper, but your request is firm. Then, you wait. You wait for his eyes to meet yours. You wait for him to  _ really  _ look. You’ve known him just a few days and already you can’t imagine a life where you don’t get to look at him looking at you.

“Ya shouldn’t hang around me,” he says, emboldened by the distraction of keeping his hands busy. His voice quiets as he goes on, until it’s barely enough to reach your ears. “I’m no good for ya. Dis ain’t the life I’d want for… for someone like you.”

“Someone like me?” You watch the flash of recognition in his eyes when he realizes you know what he’s trying to say even when he can’t find the words, that you hear him even in his pauses. You bring your heads together and time seems to stand still. 

With your mouths already close enough that you’re exchanging air, all it takes is the lift of your chin to bring your lips to his.

The first kiss is a test, a taste, a surrender to the temptation that's been building between you for longer than you'll admit even to yourself. Your lips meet and strong hands slide around you, pulling you in. He tastes like the tea you shared. Like mint and lemon. Like bitter herbs and too much honey. He pulls you in by your sides until you’re standing flush against the edge of the bed between his knees. 

Raphael gasps. His breath warms your skin in puffs of air as your hands roam his plastron. His grip on you tenses, as if startled, before relaxing to explore you as well. 

He kisses the less severe of your wounds. Your forehead, your temples, the bruises on your jaw. There’s reverence in his touch. Devotion on his lips. His mouth reaches the dark veins along your collarbone, the buttons securing the top of your shirt, and then he stops. His breathing stutters and his hands falter before he buries his face into your neck. He holds your body tightly against his chest in the pause. 

"You Ok?" Your fingers twirl the tails of his bandana. But when he doesn’t answer, you use them to tip his head back to look into his eyes.

“I ain’t never-” He blinks up at you, leaning into your caress. “I ain’t done this with anyone.” He’s covered in cuts and bruises of his own. There are dark stains on his bandana that you're sure are blood. But you bring his face up and press your lips to his. After a stunned moment, he kisses back. 

Though it scares you, Raphael’s confession spurs one of your own. "I've never been with anyone who makes me feel the things you do..." 

Raphael must catch the change in your breathing, the quickening of your pulse. But still, he worries. “I can understand if ya don’t want this…” he says. “If ya don’t want me. I know I’m not the-” Raphael’s words stop abruptly as you cover his mouth with yours. The swiftness of your kiss, the urgency, catches him off guard. He releases a guttural moan against your lips and you immediately pull away. 

“Is it your stitches?” you ask, cradling his face in your hands. “Did I-” but before you can voice any more concern, he draws you back to him. 

His thumbs trace the line of your jaw as his lips find yours for another kiss. He kisses you like he needs this as desperately as he needs to breathe. He can't get you close enough. He pants into the crook of your shoulder as he breathes you in. “No. No, I want… I want this. I want you.” Then, he's the one holding you steady to look into your eyes. “Do you?”

Your hands work the knot of his bandana as you hold his gaze. You give a short nod before slowly lifting the mask from his face and tossing it aside. You lean in and speak your answer upon the corner of his mouth, “I want you.”

He picks you up under your thighs without breaking your kiss and lifts you onto the bed. When he lies back against the pillows, he brings you with him. Your bodies find each other easily, aligning side-by-side as if practiced, as if you were made to fit tucked into his embrace.

When he touches you, it's tender, tentative. He knows his own strength and he's more cautious than he needs to be. But he takes direction well and he's eager to please. 

His attention to detail is like worship. The way he says your name is like a prayer. The way he begs _ more, please, don’t stop  _ sets your blood aflame. 

He revels in the flush of your skin, in the heat of your arousal. He craves it. Can’t get enough with his hands, with his mouth. The desperate noises you make as he brings you to the edge leave him wide-eyed and yearning. 

When you lay your hands on him, he rises into your touch. When your nails draw patterns up the insides of his thighs, he trembles. The sounds he makes are sinful. You want to taste them on your tongue, swallow them in a kiss. His body’s responses to you drive your hunger for more.

"Ya gettin' t' me with those little moans, Killa." Raphael's hands slide carefully around your shoulders to your neck, tipping your head back with gentle encouragement. The press of his kisses warm your forehead. His lips linger. His breath comes heavily through his nose. 

Your break that kiss to leave a trail of them down his plastron to his thighs.

You bring him off with your mouth as his hips thrust and stutter. His hand kneads your hip in time with your movements, guiding you to speed up, hinting at how close he is. He cries out as he finds release. 

Raphael's knuckles caress your face as you lay beside him. At some point the two of you managed to sneak under the sheets. Now you’re enjoying the company of his silence. When Raphael's focus lingers too long on your shoulder, you hold his hand still and his attention shifts to your eyes. 

“How do ya do that?” He whispers into the slip of space between you. "How do ya touch me like this and say things like... and expect me not to-”

“Not to what?” Your fingers trip mindlessly over the curve of his shell.

His eyes flutter closed at the sensation. “Not to ask ya to stay?”

“I never said I wanted to go." 

You draw yourself into him before broaching up the subject that plagues each of your minds. "Did you guys find out anything? About the antidote… about me… why they took me…"

Raphael holds you to his chest, protectively, possessively. "You don't gotta worry 'bout none o' that."

With his hand cupping your face you know he can feel it when your jaw starts to tremble. "No, no, no. Hey. Ya safe here. Ya safe wit' me." His forehead is solid against yours. "Nobody's gonna touch ya. I won't let 'em."

A voice from the doorway cuts through Raphael’s murmuring and sends a shock through both of you. "It's unlikely they'll be after more of your blood, anyway.” Donatello presses forward, entering the room without invitation and speaking a mile a minute. You and Raphael blink at his intrusion with disbelief. “The sample they have in their possession is sufficient. It's highly probably they've distilled and manufactured, er, synthesized rather, enough antidote to serve their purposes and then some. You see, the poison deposited in the wound you acquired as a child-"

Raphael twists toward his brother with a snarl. "Donnie, just how long 'ave you been over there?"

Donatello makes a small sound of thought before he responds. "I did happen to arrive a few minutes prior to making my presence known. And perhaps a moment sooner than you would have preferred company. But by my calculations, I waited ample time for post-coital canoodling and arrived well within your refractory period in order to-"

"Refractory?" 

Donatello raises his hand and voice to enlighten his older brother about the male orgasm. To which Raphael responds by flipping him off, with gusto. 

“Factor this.”

After a bit of colorful persuasion on Raphael's part, Donatello makes his way out of the room. Your fingers, conversely, make their way up the scutes of Raphael's shell.

Raphael mumbles something under his breath as he slides his knee between yours.

"What's that?"

He kisses you without urgency. Your heart swells with the implication of his patience. "I still gotta treat your shoulder."

You give your consent against his lips. You smooth your palms over the bumps of his shell. "Later."

He hums into your kiss, churrs under your touch, and holds you like he'll never let you go.

  
  
  



End file.
